


you can set yourself on fire

by naktoms



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Fake Character Death, Gen, M/M, can be read as platonic or romantic, complicated feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:28:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23487580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naktoms/pseuds/naktoms
Summary: Once, years ago, Trevor had mentioned it: “What if we all just disappeared?”Jeremy had hummed in contemplation. Matt had stayed silent, still playing with Trevor’s hair.And Trevor had continued with, “Like, run off to New York or something. With different names.”And Jeremy had replied with, “Is this some kind of dramatic crime movie, now?”Trevor had laughed, and they all went to sleep.But, in truth, Trevor never stopped thinking about it.Escaping.
Relationships: Matt Bragg/Trevor Collins/Jeremy Dooley
Comments: 9
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

The day after Trevor dies is oddly, unnervingly quiet.

Jeremy wakes up, like any other morning. The only things reminding him even vaguely of yesterday’s job are stitches across the front of his shin, a bruise high on his cheekbone, the smell of smoke and sweat clinging to him because he didn’t shower last night. Couldn’t shower. Why didn’t he shower?

Oh, yeah. His best friend died yesterday. And he was so wrecked that when he got home, it was all he could do to collapse face down onto his bed and cry himself to sleep.

Yeah. Okay.

He only vaguely remembers Matt staying the night, so he is mildly startled when he exits his bedroom and finds Matt sitting at his kitchen island, back facing him. Jeremy approaches slowly, carefully, not wanting to scare Matt. The days after a heist can be a jumpy time for some.

The floorboards creak and Matt turns his head just enough so he can see Jeremy over his shoulder. He shifts to look at him properly, and Jeremy doesn’t know how to read his expression; there is something rather fragile about him, and Jeremy can relate. For a moment, they just stare at each other. There is an untreated cut above Matt’s eyebrow, blood caked around it and sticking to his eyebrow hairs. 

Matt is the first to avert his eyes, looking down to the mug of coffee sitting in front of him. “Morning,” he says, quietly, but even then it sounds too loud.

“Morning,” Jeremy replies, voice coming out a little hoarse.

“Coffee’s fresh,” Matt says, lifting his own mug to his face to take a drink.

Jeremy moves to prepare himself a cup, completely black, and briefly considers pouring some whiskey into it. He decides against it and heads back to the island to sit opposite Matt, who is still staring resolutely at the surface of the coffee in his mug. Jeremy takes a sip before it’s cooled off, burning his tongue and throat. Somehow, it makes him feel better.

The apartment is silent, save for the ticking of the clock on the wall and the occasional noise of one of them taking another drink. Eventually, Matt takes a deep breath, thumb rubbing absently over the handle of his mug. “It doesn’t feel real,” he says, still not looking up.

All of the emotion from last night comes back in a rush so swift that, for a second, Jeremy thinks he might puke. He had been able to ignore it as long as Matt did, but it is ultimately undeniable-- Trevor should be sitting here too, eyes sleepy and hair tousled, wearing pajamas that probably aren’t even his. Trevor should be making some kind of conversation about yesterday’s heist, chatting them up about their massive take and how big of a win it was for the crew. Trevor _should be here_.

Jeremy wets his lips. He doesn’t look at Matt. “Yeah, I know.”

Without responding, Matt rises from his barstool and sits his empty mug into the sink. Then, he stands behind Jeremy, seeming to hesitate for a second, before he puts a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. Jeremy bites his lip, feeling dangerously close to tears.

“Geoff wants to see us later,” Matt says then, and his own voice is shaking a bit. He swallows, hard. Jeremy finally looks up at him. “Debriefing, and all that.”

Jeremy nods. “How soon?”

Matt shrugs. “He texted me earlier this morning. I guess whenever we want to come in.”

“Can we go lay back down?” Jeremy asks, without really thinking. The implication is there-- _I want to go back to bed, I want to be safe and warm again, I want to be held, I want you_ _to hold me_ \--

Matt nods, expression softening. “That sounds great.”

Jeremy smiles despite himself, despite the circumstances. Geoff could wait.

Geoff has never been one to hide nor fake emotion, so Jeremy knows he means it when he says, “I am so, so damn sorry.”

As per usual, Geoff likes to do his debriefings privately, one-on-one in his office. Jeremy feels a little lost, though, knowing that things are not the same as they have been at previous debriefings. Sure, the heist went great, in the grand scheme of things-- massive take, another step closer to taking down this smuggler bastard, perhaps a boost in morale. But Trevor’s death hangs over Jeremy like a dark shadow, keeping him from feeling any measure of successful.

 _He was left alone, he was a sitting duck, we should’ve anticipated it, we should’ve been able to save him_ \--

“Jeremy?” Geoff says, then, and Jeremy realizes that Geoff has been speaking to him, probably for quite some time.

“What?” Jeremy responds, a knee-jerk reaction, and then sighs heavily. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m just--” He gestures vaguely, hoping that it’s easy enough for Geoff to guess.

“Dude, don’t apologize,” Geoff says, somewhat sternly. “It’s difficult. I’ve experienced it before and it doesn’t get easier-- it _shouldn’t_ get easier.” He takes a deep breath, fingers curling around the ends of his chair’s armrests. “But, the sun still rose this morning, and we still have work to do.”

This is businessman Geoff, maximizing assets Geoff, crime lord Geoff. The Geoff that Jeremy doesn’t want to face right now. Jeremy wants to go back to bed.

But, in the end, he gets it. The world keeps on turning. 

“What needs to be done?” Jeremy asks, attempting to inject some enthusiasm into his words. His voice still cracks.

Geoff smiles at him, just a little, eyes soft. Full of pity. It makes Jeremy want to cry. “I’m gonna put you and Mica to work cataloguing our new ordnance. It’s busy work, mostly, but important work. I figured,” he pauses for a second, mouth twisting as if he doesn’t know what to say. “I figured that it’s best, for you, to do something relatively… I dunno. Low action.”

Jeremy appreciates it, in a way. Appreciates not only the nature of the task, but even having a task to complete. It would’ve been worse if Geoff had told him that he had the week off.

“Sounds great,” Jeremy says, rising from his seat. Geoff rises as well to see him off. Right as Jeremy starts to open the door, Geoff catches his shoulder.

“Really, Lil’ J, I’m sorry this happened.” Geoff’s gaze is intense, as if he’s really trying to get Jeremy to understand, to see the depth of his emotion. The depth of his remorse, maybe. “It shouldn’t have happened,” he continues, glancing away almost in shame.

Jeremy puts a hand on Geoff’s shoulder as well, meeting his eyes. “It’s not your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.” he says. He doesn’t know if that’s what Geoff needs to hear, but Geoff lifts his eyes again and nods silently. Maybe it’s what Jeremy needs to hear, instead. Either way, it helps.

Mica hugs him as soon as he walks through the warehouse doors, apparently having been waiting for him. She squeezes him tightly, so tightly, and Jeremy holds her just as tight. She doesn’t cry. Not yet, anyway.

“I brought you some food,” Mica says once she pulls away, striding over to a crate that, sure enough, has a McDonald’s bag atop it. “I didn’t know if you had eaten already. I got those new McGriddles.”

Jeremy follows her, a small smile on his face. “Thanks, Mica. Are they delicious and greasy?”

Mica returns his smile, but it is sad. “They are indeed delicious and greasy.” A pause. “Are you doing okay?”

Jeremy knew it was coming, and every time someone asks he has to reevaluate, check if he really is okay. He thinks for a second, then says, “As well as okay can be.” They both pause for a second. Jeremy elaborates. “Give me a week and I will be crying on my couch at 3 AM, looking at old pictures on my phone. But right now I am okay.”

They set about unpacking the new additions to their storehouse, Mica taking boxes of ammo and Jeremy hauling body armor. He enjoys the task-- it’s easy to get lost in, writing down serial numbers into their massive ledger, focusing on organizing things just so. As Jeremy breaks open another crate, Mica says behind him, “Is it too early to reminisce?”

“Is it?” Jeremy replies, revealing the crate’s contents to be replacement gun parts. He glances over his shoulder to find Mica looking sheepish.

“I just-- I can’t stop thinking about that omelette he made me on Monday. And that’s crazy, right? Out of everything he ever did and it’s an omelette that I’m hung up on. And now I don’t know if I’m ever going to eat an omelette again.” Mica takes a breath, words having tumbled out like she couldn’t stop them. Like if she didn’t get it out then and there, she never would. 

Jeremy listens, doesn’t speak. He sorts the boxes of gun parts by brand.

“It’s so scary, you know?” Mica continues, finally crouching down to help him. “Sometimes it’s easy to think we’re invincible, but we’re _not_ , Jeremy.” Her voice cracks. Jeremy can’t look at her, or his momentary calm will fold like a house of cards. “Who are we going to lose next?” She asks in a whisper, almost to herself. 

Jeremy wonders the same thing.

Matt returned to his own apartment after debriefing, citing a need to shower and an inability to borrow Jeremy’s clothes due to the incredible height disparity. Jeremy visits him after his task with Mica is completed, finding the apartment just as messy as it usually is-- dirty clothes strewn across the floor, soda cans covering the majority of the coffee table’s surface area, dishes in the sink. 

Jeremy shakes his head at the mess and continues on to the bedroom, finding Matt wrapped up in his puffy red comforter, watching TV. He looks up and smiles at Jeremy’s entrance, seeming a little more alive since this morning.

“I swear, one day Mica is going to come in here with nothing but a box of trash bags,” Jeremy chides jokingly, sitting on the bed beside Matt.

“Let her, please. I will pay her to be my maid.” Matt opens his blanket cocoon, inviting Jeremy within. Jeremy obliges, allowing himself to be tucked against Matt’s side, briefly pressing his face against Matt’s neck. His body wash smells like apricot. “How was your post-heist task?” Matt asks, resituating them so they are both adequately covered by the comforter. His arm is wrapped comfortably around Jeremy’s shoulders.

“Eh, boring. Mica and I catalogued ordnance. What did you do?”

“Blew up a couple cars with Kerry,” Matt replies. He pauses. “It made me think of it.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate. When Jeremy closes his eyes, he can see the flaming SUV, the black, charred shell that was left, the melted plastic of the electronics within. He can see how blowing up very similar SUVs would hurt badly for Matt.

“I’m… having a hard time,” Matt says slowly, like it’s hard for him to admit. “Like, the world is just going on like nothing happened. Feels like it should stop and let me catch up, y’know? Let me breathe.”

Jeremy nods wordlessly. They sit there together, watching some random Animal Planet documentary, curled in on themselves and each other. And Matt is more than enough, but Jeremy doesn’t think he’ll ever stop wanting Trevor tucked against his other side, Trevor’s hands in his, Trevor smiling and laughing. All Jeremy can think, as Matt slowly drops off to sleep, is that he can’t handle losing anybody else.

Indeed, the sun still rises, the world still turns, and Geoff still has an empire to run.

Jeremy is placed on guard duty while Gavin runs a deal deep inside a drug lord’s warehouse. He’s standing opposite Ryan, who keeps his eyes forward, hands curled tight around the automatic rifle in his grasp. The atmosphere is unusually awkward-- usually, when Jeremy has to fill in for one of the others and works directly with Ryan, they enjoy some casual banter, shooting the shit, small talk about anything and everything. Even though they’re part of the same empire, the B-Team and the main crew do very different things, so it’s always good to catch up. This time, however, Ryan has been rather quiet, even more than usual. Jeremy kind of hates it-- it leaves him alone with his thoughts, replaying the heist over and over in his mind.

Ten, twenty, thirty minutes pass. “How are you doing?” Ryan finally asks, cautious.

“Fine,” Jeremy responds, almost automatically. He glances at Ryan, and Ryan glances at him, only his eyes visible behind his mask. “ _Fine_ ,” Jeremy repeats, and he’s not sure which one of them he’s convincing.

Ryan nods curtly, apparently willing to leave it at that. “Alright.”

“Alright.”

Forty, fifty, sixty minutes pass. “I know what it’s like,” Ryan says then, shifting on his feet. His leather gloves creak as he adjusts his grip on his gun. “I’m sure you know the story. It… y’know, it _hurts_. Still.”

Jeremy has indeed heard the story: the mysterious Vagabond, driven to homicide for hire with the ulterior motive of finding whoever ordered the hit on the leader of his previous crew. He eventually accomplished his goal while on an early job for Geoff; Geoff assisted him, so Ryan stayed, indebted to him. Jeremy stays silent, to see if Ryan will say anything else, give any more well-meaning advice, but Ryan too stays silent.

Seventy, eighty, ninety minutes pass. Gavin comes out of the warehouse with a bloody lip and a stack of cash. They leave together, Gavin chattering about the cartel leader and how rude and inconsiderate he is. Jeremy tunes him out, for the most part, wondering instead about Ryan. _It hurts. Still._ Ryan has this thing of pretending he doesn’t have emotions, or if he does at least downplaying them severely. For Ryan to tell Jeremy that he still carries that burden around with him, despite having sought and found revenge for it… it’s scary, to be honest. Thinking about having to bear this soul-crushing weight atop his shoulders for months, years to come. Maybe the rest of his life. He doesn’t know if he could handle that.

(In the back of his mind, he knows that everyone is there for him, and that he can cope, work through it, come out on the other side. But, right now, it seems like a tall order.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey did anyone order an excessively long and kinda sad fic about my new favorite ot3? no? nobody? okay
> 
> to all my long-standing subscribers: hey guys long time no see! i miss yall and i miss writing so i figured the quarantine was an excellent time to pick it back up
> 
> to anyone else who clicks on this: thanks for the hit, i hope you like it and stick around for more fics! im obsessed with the fahc so i'll have more coming soon hopefully lol
> 
> this fic is already finished so the rest of the chapters will be up in a jiffy lol
> 
> stay safe and sane out there everybody!! wash ya hands!!! and as always, kudos and comments are appreciated!!


	2. Chapter 2

Meanwhile.

One state over, the day after the heist, Trevor wakes up. The wilderness outside of Los Santos is so dissimilar to the city, saguaro cacti replacing skyscrapers and nothing but a two-lane road heading out of the state. He had made it to a rundown gas station with only two pumps and a cashier that didn’t seem interested in asking any questions, and so, he huddled down for the night and slept in the parking lot.

Trevor fumbles for the buttons that will bring his car seat upright again, succeeding eventually, staring at the ceiling of his car until he is met with windshield and blinding morning sun. And only now, looking at the clear blue sky, does he allow himself to feel _guilty_.

It was necessary. Once you’re in, you can’t get out until you’re in your grave-- or until you put yourself in one, then climb back out.

Even still, he can’t help himself. He knows full well how horribly it will have wrecked his friends, even those in his crew he didn’t know so well. It’s hard to lose one of your own, but somehow it makes Trevor feel dirty knowing that he isn’t really dead. His friends are crying for no reason. Everyone only _thinks_ he is dead.

Trevor is struck by the urge to take his burner phone out of the glovebox, dial Jeremy or Matt or Geoff or _whoever_ , say that he’s sorry and that he’s alive and plead with them to not cry and just forget about him.

This whole thing is the most selfish thing he’s ever done. It’s necessary, but that doesn’t diminish how _shitty_ this is. 

Trevor stares at the closed glovebox door, breath coming faster, hands shaking. He should call someone. He should turn the car around and throw himself at Geoff’s feet, ask for his forgiveness--

_No. You are a coward. You should at least follow through with this much._

_They’ll all hate you if they find out what you did._

_You’re better off dead anyway._

Trevor tears his eyes away from the glovebox and opens his car door, heading into the gas station and, once inside, the dingy bathroom. He stops to look at himself in one of the mirrors. There are some old bruises peeking out from beneath his shirt collar, remnants from a fight during their last job that haven’t quite faded yet. They only serve as reminders of why he left.

He hadn’t let himself cry yet-- couldn’t have possibly done so, would’ve lost his resolve if he had. He turns the faucet on to wash his face and allows the tears to flow, albeit silently. He can’t afford to break down completely-- he still has a long journey ahead of him. His destination: Austin, Texas, where one of his non-Geoff-affiliated contacts named Alfredo lives. Sure, he’s still involved in the crime life, but he’s far enough removed from Geoff and holds no loyalties to him that Trevor feels comfortable crashing there, far away from his problems.

Trevor exits the bathroom and purchases a snack and a drink before heading back out to his car. He munches on his bag of Doritos and can’t stop his mind from wandering to everyone he left at home. 

Once, years ago, Trevor had mentioned it: “What if we all just disappeared?”

Jeremy had hummed in contemplation. Matt had stayed silent, still playing with Trevor’s hair.

And Trevor had continued with, “Like, run off to New York or something. With different names.”

And Jeremy had replied with, “Is this some kind of dramatic crime movie, now?”

Trevor had laughed, and they all went to sleep.

But, in truth, Trevor never stopped thinking about it. Every close call, every kink in the plan, every time the B-Team reassembled in some diner with bleeding noses and broken fingers, Trevor thought about it. _Escaping_. Fake death or otherwise. He wishes that they would have come with him. He wishes that he could’ve brought himself to tell any of them about it in the first place.

So, here is how it happened.

Trevor took a grenade from the armory-- just one, because it’s all he needed. He had agonized over this plan for _months_ , even before Geoff announced the huge heist to them. The heist was just an incredibly convenient conduit. It worked out fine-- they weren’t the only ones trying to get into the smugglers’ vaults, how hard is it to believe that their enemies would be packing explosives? How hard is it to believe that their enemies would go for the cute little hacker guy sitting in an SUV by himself? How hard is it to believe that their enemies would blow up said SUV and try to stop the operation?

Not hard at all. It happens all the time, one would think. 

Trevor had left his earpiece in for just a few more moments as he sprinted in the opposite direction of the blazing car, just long enough to hear someone yell, _Trevor! You there?_ and _Treyco, buddy, what’s going on?_

Just long enough to tear up, feel remorse, feel the temptation to say _woah, shit, sorry guys I’m fine_ , before he threw it on the ground ahead of him and stomped it as he ran away.

So, now, here he is: somewhere in the Arizona desert, pulled over on the side of the road, in a car that he bought three weeks ago just for this purpose. Running low on gas. Half of Jeremy’s number punched into his phone. 

He thinks, if he really did call anyone, he would probably call Geoff. He has decided, in his head at least, that Geoff would not particularly care. When you have an entire crew, and then an entire _other_ crew, both equally as willing to give their lives for you and your hairbrained ideas, one of them doesn’t matter that much.

He knows, in reality, that Geoff is devastated. It is, after all, a failing on his part-- he planned the whole thing with security, efficiency, and swiftness in mind. Nobody was supposed to die.

Trevor backspaces the digits on his screen, then throws the phone back into the glovebox.

Here’s the thing: he hasn’t had a proper conversation with anyone since the morning of the heist, which was-- god, almost a week ago now? And he is missing the sound of other people’s voices. And growing dangerously close to giving up, already.

Here’s the thing: his plan stops at Texas, on Alfredo Diaz’s couch. Maybe he had some romantic ideas about running away, like in all the movies, having people call him Hunter or Kevin or Charles instead of _Trevor_ , because nobody can say it like his friends. But now those ideas are dissolving, and he is left with cold truth. He is _alone_ , and he is _lost_ , and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

He feels like a child. Unable to commit. Couldn’t commit to the Fakes, couldn’t commit to running away.

(And, if he really wants to push it: couldn’t commit to Jeremy, couldn’t commit to Matt, couldn’t commit to _anybody_ \--)

Trevor turns the ignition back on, and barely checks the road behind him before he pulls out onto it.

Trevor has to make a pit stop in El Paso.

There is a woman named Elyse (alias, probably, who knows) that is very good at forging documents and then getting them put into the system. An invaluable resource for criminals such as Trevor, but usually people change their names to escape the police, not to escape their own crew.

Elyse asks no questions, thankfully. Trevor lets her pick his new identity for him, committing it to memory in case anyone asks any questions. He’s now Charlie Black, relocating from one factory job to another after being laid off. It’s simple enough. 

After paying Elyse her hefty charge, Trevor doesn’t have much money left. He hopes it will be enough to make it to Texas.


	3. Chapter 3

Matt can only sleep when Jeremy is beside him. When he’s by himself, all he can see is the burning wreckage, feel the heat of the flames, hear the sounds of his teammates sobbing both beside him and through the intercom.

It is hard to even find a suitable distraction. Trevor was so entrenched in the lives of everyone in the B-Team that it’s hard to find a single thing that Trevor did not participate in with them. Video games, making dinner, having a drink, snuggling on the couch-- nothing feels the same without him. Nothing feels _good_ without him.

It only takes a week post-heist for Mica to pull the photo album down. They don’t have many pictures, always afraid of keeping too much incriminating evidence around, but the printouts and Polaroids and cheap developed film inside the album hold nothing but proof that they were happy together. One picture depicts Trevor kissing Jeremy’s cheek, another with his arms slung around Mica and Matt’s shoulders, another of him asleep on the couch with a dick drawn on his forehead. Mica’s laughter at the pictures soon turns to crying, and Matt has to get up and leave. Jeremy follows him into the bedroom, even though he wishes he wouldn’t.

“Hey,” Jeremy says, and there is something fragile in his voice. He grabs Matt’s wrist, pressing his fingers into the tender skin. Matt doesn’t pull away. “Listen to me,” Jeremy continues, physically turning Matt towards him. “It’s okay, you know? It’s okay, to-- to be sad about it, God knows you are not the only one.”

Matt is trying really hard not to cry, and he doesn’t even know why-- he’s seen Jeremy cry more in the past week than he has in the entire time he’s known him, it’s not like Jeremy is going to judge him. It’s like if he avoids breaking down over it, then it didn’t really happen.

Except it did, and he’s going to have to deal with it sooner or later.

He feels his neutral expression crumple and puts a hand over his mouth to stifle the sob that suddenly rises from his chest. Jeremy pulls him close and he buries his face in Jeremy’s shoulder even though he has to bend down to do so. Not long after, he feels another person embracing him, Mica’s soft cries reaching his ears as she rests her head on his shoulder.

He doesn’t know how long they stand there like that, only that afterwards he simultaneously feels better and worse. After his sobs taper off, Jeremy pulls back to hold him at arm length, eyes searching, wordlessly checking that Matt is okay-- or starting to be, at least.

“I really want a drink,” Matt says, voice still choked.

So, they end up on the couch, each of them with their drink of choice from Jeremy’s extensive liquor collection. Matt picked a simple ale, but the warmth in his belly it provides makes him feel better nonetheless.

“We might as well go all in,” Mica says, her voice still hoarse, nursing a rum and coke. “What are you guys missing the most? I miss his smile.”

“I miss his hugs,” Jeremy says almost immediately, staring down into his glass. Mica nods in agreement, and her gaze moves to Matt.

Matt thinks for a second, staring absently at the coffee table in front of him, where Jeremy’s socked feet are resting. “I just miss him,” he says finally, unable to muster anything else. Mica sniffles.

“I wish I could see him one more time,” Mica says. “I don’t know what I would say to him… but I just wish I could see him.”

“I wish we could’ve had a funeral,” Jeremy says then, voice quivering like he’s about to break down again.

And, for some unknown reason, that triggers something. Matt’s brow furrows.

“What’s up?” Mica asks, noticing Matt’s change in expression.

He shoves his upset aside for a second to think critically. “Guys, were there any remains?”

Jeremy and Mica glance at one another, then look back at Matt. “The explosion was pretty violent, there wasn’t anything there to salvage,” Jeremy says then, almost cautiously. “Why?”

“It might’ve been a big explosion,” Matt says, sitting upright now, setting his beer down so he can gesticulate with his hands. “There might’ve been a big fire. But there still should’ve been some-- some bones, or something-- where’s his wallet? Did we look for his phone, or his main laptop? Anything?”

“What are you implying?” Mica asks, and she almost sounds… angry? That’s not the right descriptor, but it’s the closest thing that Matt can come up with. And he gets it-- it seems almost disrespectful, somehow, to even be suggesting… whatever it is that his mind has conjured up. That maybe Trevor didn’t die in that explosion.

_But, if so, then where is he?_

Matt meets her eyes, and after a long pause, he sighs and slumps back. “I don’t know. I guess it just suddenly struck me as a little odd. We could’ve still had a funeral.”

This seems to placate them, and they drift back into their melancholy nostalgia session. Matt can’t seem to shake the thought.

Matt is on warehouse duty, with Jack of all people. Geoff wants some ordnance moved to a different warehouse, but his usual employees for grunt work were already stationed on some other job that Matt doesn’t know the details of; thus, the job fell to them, some of the only crew members already not on task. Matt is fine with the idle work-- he needs a distraction from being so goddamn sad all the time. 

Their job is to pack it up into crates and then load those crates onto a discreet box truck. Easy enough-- the hard part is double checking the physical weaponry with the serial numbers in the ledger, making sure everything is accounted for.

“Should be thirty-two boxes of SMG ammo,” Jack reads off to Matt. Matt counts quickly and gives him a thumbs up. “Fifteen flares.” Thumbs up. “Uhhh… twenty-three grenades.” Thumbs up.

“Wait.”

“What’s up?” Jack asks, then, when no answer is readily given, hopping down from the back of the box truck and coming to where Matt is hunched over the boxes laid out on the warehouse floor, being meticulously double checked before being loaded.

“Actually, we seem to be missing a grenade,” Matt says, standing and fixing Jack with a questioning look. “Was one checked out and the ledger total wasn’t updated?”

Jack’s eyes skim the ledger quickly, then he pauses to read it more thoroughly. His eyebrows bunch together. “I don’t see anything. Maybe someone forgot?”

“But what did they take it for? We didn’t use any explosives in the heist, and we haven’t run any big jobs since then.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “I’ll have to ask around, make sure nobody took anything they weren’t supposed to.” He shrugs. “In the meantime, it should be fine. It’s one grenade.”

Matt shrugs and sets about continuing their tedious work of counting and recounting until they reach the end, upon which they begin packing it all up and loading it in the truck. Matt can’t shake the feeling that something just doesn’t add up.

“Hey, Jack,” Matt says, after passing him a particularly heavy box of explosives. Jack grunts in acknowledgement as he moves the box to the back of the truck. “Were there… did you… I mean, was there-- was there anything left of him?” Matt’s voice sounds very pathetic to his own ears.

Jack takes a moment to answer, and Matt figures he’s catching his breath. “I’m not sure, I didn’t handle the wreckage. But I didn’t hear anything about it, I guess I just assumed that the blast blew him to bits.” He cringes slightly, then. “Sorry. Poor phrasing.”

Matt ignores it, passing another, lighter box up to Jack. “Isn’t that weird, though? I don’t doubt that the blast could’ve killed him, but like-- what if it didn’t?”

Jack pauses after stacking the box atop the others, his hands on his hips. “What are you getting at?” he asks then, curious but unaccusing.

Matt shrugs. “I just think it’s weird. I don’t know.”

Jack stares at him a moment longer. Matt picks up another box.

Everyone has been avoiding Trevor’s apartment. Technically, it’s owned and paid for by Geoff, so he should really get it cleared out so he can move someone else into it. Matt guesses that it just feels too soon for everyone involved.

Matt can’t get the thought out of his head. _Trevor’s body should’ve been in there. Burnt to a crisp, sure, maybe nothing but bones, but it should’ve been in there. Why didn’t we find anything in there?_

_But if his body wasn’t in the SUV, where is it?_

_Where is he?_

Matt sits in his car for a few long minutes after he pulls into a space in the parking garage of Trevor’s apartment complex. It’s only a couple blocks away from his own apartment, but he was already out getting groceries and just couldn’t stop himself from pulling into the garage. He has to know-- he has to see all of Trevor’s stuff, sitting there, untouched. Maybe not the exact same as when Matt was last there-- it had been a couple weeks prior to the heist-- but Matt knows things, like where he puts his snacks and his gaming set up. He just has to _see it_ \-- then he can put this stupid idea to rest.

Matt has a key to Trevor’s apartment, has been resolutely avoiding thinking too hard about it whenever he pulls his keys out of his pocket to unlock his own front door. It’s a different color, silvery instead of golden, and has some locksmith company’s name engraved into it. Matt stands in front of Trevor’s front door for an even longer while. _What the hell am I doing. Walking into a dead man’s apartment._

_I have to see it._

He opens the door.

Everything is remarkably similar to the last time he was there. There’s still a jacket laying across the back of the couch, a throw blanket unceremoniously piled up in the floor, an empty chip bag that they all had neglected to thrown away. Matt feels a pang of hurt for a second, remembering the last time he was here. It had been weeks since they had hung out outside of work, and not because they were busy-- Trevor had been… not really avoiding them, but always coming up with reasons that he couldn’t hang out. Then, suddenly, Trevor himself had proposed a Mario Kart tournament, just among the three of them. Matt won, of course, because they were all casual scrubs while Matt played to win. Trevor had fake-choked him after he won the Grand Prix. Matt unconsciously runs his fingers across his throat, remembering the incident.

Matt slowly trawls through the apartment, walking through the kitchen. He finds the cabinets bare, the fridge only holding a few expired bottles of condiments and some moldy leftovers. He briefly checks out the bathroom, finding the medicine cabinet above the sink to be wide open and similarly bare, before making his way to the bedroom. He is somewhat startled to find it in utter disarray-- Trevor wasn’t exactly a neat freak, but it is uncharacteristically messy. There are clothes strung across the bed, the trash can by his desk is turned over, and the dresser drawers are all pulled out. Matt investigates, finding the drawers to be almost empty save for some ratty shirts and a couple pairs of pajamas. It would’ve made sense for Trevor to pack, since after a heist they usually stay at one another’s apartment-- maybe he was planning on coming over afterwards. But, then, where’s the suitcase?

The contents of the trash can are mostly empty soda cans and some pieces of crumpled paper, but as Matt sets about picking the trash up he finds some hard pieces of plastic. He brings one of the larger pieces up to his face to examine it, finding that it is a California driver’s license bearing Trevor’s fake, crew-assigned name. Matt pulls a face. _Why would he cut up his driver’s license? The name is fake, anyway._

Among the trash is also a couple of Trevor’s credit cards and some documents that Matt can’t quite piece together but that seem to bear identifying information nonetheless. He feels sick, suddenly.

_Well, maybe someone’s just come by his apartment and taken care of things._

But his wallet should’ve been in his pocket, with his cards and such inside, on his body. Why are there just a couple cards in the trash?

_Maybe he put his suitcase in his car._

But why did he pack almost _all_ of his clothes? Why is the closet bare?

Matt pushes clothes aside off the bed and sits down, putting his head in his hands. For a terrifying moment, Matt wonders if Geoff had Trevor killed-- but he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t. Trevor never did anything wrong, never betrayed Geoff, always did his job exactly as directed. Unless there was something Matt didn’t know about--

Maybe there was a lot Matt didn’t know about.

Matt had to tell-- someone. He wasn’t sure who. They probably wouldn’t believe him anyway, would brush it off or yell at him. But he can’t handle being the only person that knows about this.

Matt stares at Jeremy expectantly.

“So what you’re trying to tell me,” Jeremy says slowly, fixing Matt with a hard look, “is that Trevor isn’t dead? And maybe, in fact, planned this?”

“You are actually fucking crazy,” Mica breaks in before Matt can respond, rising to her feet and wandering around the living room. Matt can’t help but feel a little hurt despite himself, but she’s not wrong. It is fucking crazy. “He’s fucking dead, Matt, can’t you give him a little _peace_?”

“Look, there is literally no reason that he would’ve shredded all this shit and packed up all his clothes.” Matt feels almost desperate with the need to get them at least understand where he’s coming from.

Jeremy takes a different approach than Mica, who is currently somewhat fuming. “Matt,” he says, voice gentle. “I understand, not wanting it to be real--”

“I’m not in fucking _denial_ ,” Matt cuts him off loudly, standing to his feet. Jeremy looks up at him, expression unreadable. “I saw the explosion just like everyone else fucking did, I was in the chopper above the damn thing. But I don’t understand how there can be fucking nothing left of him, and I don’t understand why he was trying to get rid of anything that could be traced to him, and I don’t understand why his apartment has been nearly ransacked when Geoff hasn’t sent anyone to clear it out yet.” He’s out of breath and feels that his face is flushed. As suddenly as his anger came it leaves, and he sits down in his armchair again, exhaling slowly. “I just don’t fucking _get it_ ,” he says, quieter this time, and feels like he’s going to cry.

Jeremy exhales, like he’s been holding in a breath ever since Matt started ranting. He scoots to the edge of the couch so he is within arm’s length, seeming to hesitate for a moment before he puts his hand on Matt’s knee. “Hey, calm down,” he says, voice still soft. “Maybe you should tell Geoff about it? If something fishy did happen, like someone breaking in or something, he can check it out.”

He doesn’t really feel any better, in the end. He thought seeing Trevor’s apartment would settle him down, even though he knew it would hurt to see rooms where he knew someone should be but isn’t. Ultimately, however, it just served to make him more suspicious, more curious as to what has actually transpired here.

And what the hell will he do if Trevor really isn’t dead? Maybe he’s been kidnapped by a rival crew or something, and by the time they figure it out and find him he really will be dead. Maybe he’s stranded somewhere, too hurt to move, waiting for someone to come pick him up.

Maybe he planned all this and he’s running away.

It doesn’t bear thinking. There’s no way Trevor would just voluntarily up and leave. He loves his job, loves working for Geoff, loves, loves--

(Loves Matt, loves Jeremy--)

Matt swallows hard, realizing he’s taken a little too long to respond. He fixes his eyes on Jeremy and simply nods. He’ll talk to Geoff, alright.

“So you’re trying to tell me that Trevor is still alive?” Geoff asks, less incredulously than Jeremy had, no tinge of righteous anger like Mica.

“I know it sounds absolutely crazy,” Matt starts, but Geoff shushes him with a wave.

“If you went to his apartment and things seemed fishy, it’s worth checking out. I’ll ask around and see if anyone has seen anything.”

The response is vague. Matt kind of doubts that Geoff will actually call any of his contacts. He can imagine how that conversation would go-- _so, yeah, I think that one of my crew members that died last week might not actually be dead and in fact meticulously planned his own fake death._ It’s stupid.

Still.

“Thanks, Geoff,” Matt says, almost relieved. At least it’s out of his hands, now, regardless of what happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> matt: *galaxy brain* trevor's not dead
> 
> also idfk what someone would need to destroy to fake their own death so sorry that that part's a little weird LMAO


	4. Chapter 4

Almost a full two weeks after the heist, Trevor finally makes it to Austin.

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. He’s only worked with Alfredo once, right after the Fakes had lost their main sniper, which was Alfredo’s speciality both in real life and in video games. They kept contact, playing Siege together and sharing anecdotes from their individual lives with details removed. Trevor doesn’t quite consider him a friend, not like he would call Jeremy or Matt a friend, but he’s close enough.

Alfredo lives in an predictably unremarkable apartment building. He answers on the first knock and greets Trevor with a serious, “Were you followed?” Trevor shakes his head, and Alfredo smiles at him now that business is taken care of. “Come in, then.”

Things are quite tidy inside save for a dirty dinner plate on the kitchen table that Alfredo hasn’t cleared. Almost as soon as Trevor notices it, Alfredo swoops it up and deposits it into the sink. Trevor dithers in the entryway.

“Uh, how-- how have you been?” Trevor says, voice sounding alien to his own ears. He hasn’t spoken much in the past two weeks, save for singing along to some country radio stations. He realizes with a pang that Alfredo is the first truly friendly face he’s seen since-- well, since.

“Doin’ alright, man, how about you?” And Alfredo probably knows the answer to that, but he asks anyway, and Trevor answers anyway.

“Things have been a little crazy,” he says simply.

Alfredo returns from the kitchen and sits down on his couch. Trevor follows suit. “I bet they have,” Alfredo replies, and Trevor can tell that he wants to ask questions, wants to pry. Trevor called him the morning of the heist and told Alfredo was that he was leaving the Fakes and needed a place to stay-- he can only imagine the scenarios that must be playing out in Alfredo’s head.

But Alfredo doesn’t need to know, and thus Trevor stays quiet, and Alfredo does too.

Once again, Trevor finds himself clutching his burner phone in his shaking hands, mind spitting out digits for him to dial. 

_It’s not too late, you can still call someone, you can still apologize._

_No, you can’t._

It’s somewhere around 3 AM and he’s sitting on Alfredo’s couch, which is his temporary bed. And he means temporary-- Alfredo offered to let him stay here as long as he needs, but Trevor doesn’t expect to be here for much longer. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, but for some reason he doesn’t feel exactly… _safe_ , here. Not because of Alfredo, but because he fears that Geoff is going to find him. Even worse, he fears that one of the others will find him, and he doesn’t know if he could ever look Jeremy or Matt in the eye after this.

_Ideally, you won’t ever have to. You’ll never see them again._

It’s not the first time the thought has crossed his mind-- of course, it was a major consideration when he first cooked up the plan. His mantra of _selfish but necessary_ has been fueling him, but now that he’s reached his destination and is faced with nothing but crippling loneliness and guilt, he can’t help but second guess himself. And God, he doesn’t want to have a break down on Alfredo’s fucking couch, but here he is, forehead resting against his clasped hands, thumbs almost but not quite pressing buttons on his phone’s dialpad.

“Hey, dude?” Alfredo’s voice comes from behind him then, just barely above a whisper. Trevor jumps, dropping his phone like it’s burned him and whipping around to look at Alfredo. “Are you okay?”

Alfredo sounds genuinely concerned. And maybe it’s because it’s 3 AM, or because he’s very emotionally fragile right now, but Trevor wants to tell him everything. Wants to explain himself to Alfredo, even though he doesn’t have to.

“I feel like I fucked up,” Trevor murmurs, settling back onto the couch. Alfredo comes around to join him. “I feel so fucking guilty,” and here his voice cracks, tears wetting the corners of his eyes.

Alfredo stays silent, just watches Trevor with a gentle expression. Trevor trudges on. “I’m so stupid, if I would’ve just told someone maybe they could’ve helped me-- it’s not wrong to be scared, when we do what we do, right?” He finds himself suddenly wanting reassurance, validation. He didn’t tell a soul about his plan other than Alfredo, and even then it was just to ask if he could live on his couch for a bit. Alfredo doesn’t know the touchy parts of it.

“No, dude,” Alfredo responds almost instantly. “This isn’t a safe profession, I don’t… I don’t blame you for wanting out.”

It should make him feel better, but it really doesn’t. All Trevor can think is that his friends would beg to differ. 

“I blew my car up,” Trevor says then, staring straight ahead at the blank TV screen, not daring to look at Alfredo for fear of what he might find in the other man’s eyes. “Everyone thinks I got blown to smithereens. I… I heard them, for a couple seconds, right after it happened. They sounded so scared.” His voice is shaking, so he stops talking.

It is silent, for a while. Alfredo takes a deep breath, and Trevor braces himself for anything that Alfredo might say.

“They _were_ scared, dude,” Alfredo says quietly. He is silent for a few beats, then continues. “They’re probably wondering who killed you. Wondering if they’re next, you know?”

This hadn’t occurred to Trevor. A lump rises in his throat.

“It might’ve been your only option,” Alfredo continues, “but maybe it wasn’t the right decision.”

Trevor doesn’t reply. Just chews the inside of his lip, focusing very hard on not tearing up.

“Can I ask you a question?” Alfredo says. Trevor hums, the sound getting choked up in his throat. Alfredo pauses another moment, as if he’s reconsidered, then says it anyway. “Is that the only reason that you left? Because you were scared?”

And isn’t that the million dollar question. Trevor answers without really thinking. “I was scared for me, yeah, but I was also scared for everyone else.” And what he isn’t saying: he got too close to them and he was afraid, almost every day, that one of them would turn up dead. That does a number on the psyche after a while. He conveniently ignores that he basically imposed his greatest fear on his friends, in the end-- he’s certain that they are all just as afraid of dying, and afraid of one another dying, and yet he still faked his own death.

Alfredo seems to consider this. After a few moments, he says quietly, “You running away didn’t fix anything.”

“I’m not _running away_ ,” Trevor says a little testily. In his periphery, he sees Alfredo raise his hands in a peaceful gesture.

“Chill out. What’s done is done,” he adds, as if to placate Trevor. “Now you just have to move on.”

Move on, indeed. Trevor doesn’t even know where to begin moving on.

Alfredo rises, touching Trevor’s shoulder briefly as he walks around the back of the couch. “Get some sleep, man.”

Trevor looks up at him and manages a smile. “Thanks, for…” he trails off, not sure what he’s thanking Alfredo for precisely. For listening to his dumb ass, for housing him, for… maybe not supporting him, but _understanding_ him.

Alfredo returns the smile and returns to his room. Trevor lays back down on the couch and tries to resist the urge to pick his phone up off the floor.

Trevor is awoken by someone letting themselves into Alfredo’s apartment. He shoots upright, blanket falling off of him. He doesn’t remember when he fell asleep, but he knows he is awake now as he fumbles for his gun.

The visitor positively screams at him-- it is a woman, dark haired and slight, who has her own gun drawn immediately. Alfredo quickly appears, dressed only in his boxers in his haste to check out the commotion.

“For fuck’s sake, Fiona, I told you to stop doing this,” Alfredo chides. Trevor flicks his gaze nervously between them. “Sorry, to both of you. Fiona, this is Trevor, he’s crashing on my couch. Trevor, this is Fiona, one of my friends.”

Trevor nods, slowly moving to put his gun back into its holster to see if Fiona will follow suit. However, Fiona seems placated by the swift introductions and replaces her own sidearm swiftly.

“Sorry, ‘Fredo.” Fiona says cheerily. “Except I’m _not_ , I told you yesterday that I was coming over this morning!”

“Must’ve forgot,” Alfredo says gruffly. He heads back to his bedroom, no doubt to get dressed, and Fiona heads to the kitchen. She begins scrounging up some food and Trevor gets the feeling that this is a regular thing with them.

Trevor notices, as her visit continues, that Fiona keeps looking at him equal parts curiously and suspiciously. It only takes him going to the bathroom once for him to hear her ask, from the living room.

“So why exactly is he here?” Fiona hisses in a whisper.

“He’s just a friend,” Alfredo responds, but Fiona isn’t going to let him off that easy.

“Why have I never seen him before? Where’s he from?” Fiona questions intensely, and Alfredo stammers. He doesn’t answer quickly enough. “What’s his last name?” she asks then. Trevor makes eye contact with his reflection and feels his blood run cold.

Because he suddenly remembers Lindsay, a fellow member of the B-Team, and remembers her talking about her friends that she knows through some random cat blog or something. Remembers a friend named Fiona.

_Oh fuck._

“I don’t know, I’ve never asked him!” Alfredo says, voice rising slightly. Fiona shushes him.

“Geoff Ramsey lost a member of his crew a couple weeks ago, named Trevor Collins,” Fiona informs him. “I know you’ve done work for Geoff before, I don’t think it’s a damn coincidence that suddenly some guy also named Trevor ends up on your couch.”

“It’s not that unbelievable, right?” Alfredo says, and Trevor appreciates that he is still trying to protect Trevor’s story. Trevor realizes belatedly that he really should’ve told Alfredo to start calling him by his current alias, but he wasn’t expecting _guests_.

Trevor hears Alfredo sigh, heavily put upon. “Okay, yeah. You _cannot_ tell anyone though,” he says, voice rising at the end.

“Oh, yeah, secret’s safe with me,” Fiona reassures him, but even without seeing her expression right now Trevor can almost guarantee that his secret is not safe with her. He wishes the floor would swallow him.

Alfredo exhales, and the couch creaks as he moves. “I think it’s fucked up, you know?” he says quietly, but oh, how Trevor can still hear him. “Geoff’s a good guy, I don’t know what he did to make Trevor think that he had to fake his own damn death to get out of the crew.”

Silence. Trevor imagines Fiona nodding thoughtfully. 

“I mean, I don’t know either of them very well,” Alfredo continues, “but I just don’t get those vibes from Geoff.”

“I’ve never met the guy, so,” Fiona says.

Their conversation switches topics, so Trevor flushes the toilet to avoid suspicion and rejoins the room. Fiona meets his eyes and smiles at him. Trevor smiles back.

He has the decency to wait to yell at Alfredo until Fiona leaves.

“Are you fucking kidding me, dude?” Trevor asks angrily the instant Alfredo has shut the front door again.

“What are you talking about?” Alfredo responds, but Trevor can see it on his face. Guilt.

“You wanna just gonna go tell every-fuckin’-body in town that I’m here? Because that’s what you’ve done!” Trevor continues, gesturing angrily to the front door. “The point of me being here is that _nobody knows I’m here_ , and you’ve already fucking ruined it! Why do you think Fiona knows about it in the first place?”

“Well maybe they need to fucking know,” Alfredo shoots back, but there’s no real venom in his voice. Trevor stops short. “If you’re as close to these people as you seem to be, they don’t deserve to just sit around and think that you’ve been fucking vaporized by a grenade.”

Trevor shakes his head. “I don’t have to listen to this,” he begins, and Alfredo cuts him off.

“You’re right, you don’t. You’re free to leave.”

Trevor wets his lips nervously. Alfredo is breathing heavy, worked up by the brief argument, arms folded across his chest. Trevor exhales irritatedly, running a hand over his face. “You just don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me,” Alfredo says, voice strained, obviously frustrated. “What the hell happened?”

Trevor bites his lip. Not a day has gone by that he _doesn’t_ think about what the hell happened, but he could never bring himself to tell Matt or Jeremy about it even though they were there, and saw it, and had the potential to understand him, comfort and reassure him.

“Come on, dude,” Alfredo reaches out and touches Trevor’s arm lightly. “It’ll help to tell someone, I promise.”

He’s right, dammit, he’s right. Trevor takes a shaky breath.

“Let’s go sit,” Alfredo says then, apparently sensing that Trevor is willing to talk. He leads Trevor over to the couch, ushering him to sit down and, after a moment’s pause, draping one of his throw blankets around Trevor’s shoulders.

“Are you my mom?” Trevor asks jokingly, but he’s thankful for the gesture. He feels weary, tired of struggling beneath this burden.

“I am now,” Alfredo says, sitting down beside Trevor. They are facing each other, and Trevor finds himself unable to meet Alfredo’s eyes.

Trevor pulls the blanket tighter around himself. “Geoff’s current project is taking down some bigwig smuggler that goes by Taylor,” he begins quietly. “It’s been a really long process, we’ve had to individually target each of his suppliers and clear them out. It started like… six months ago now, I think, was when we ran the first job. It’s been a super all-hands-on-deck kinda thing.”

“Is that what the heist was related to?” Alfredo asks. Trevor nods.

“Yeah. We spent a while tracking down this one Swedish guy who dealt in explosives. We traced him to a warehouse with a bunch of big ass vaults and that’s where I… y’know. But anyway.”

Alfredo nods. “Anyway.”

Trevor takes another deep breath, thumb idly stroking the soft knit of the throw blanket. “He’s the third guy we took down, and based on the info that me and the other intel guys managed to dig up, we think we’ve got two more to go. But the issue was what happened with the very first dude we tracked down.

“I… still don’t really know where the problem was, but we had bad intel, or missed something during surveillance, or… something. But basically, the building had way more security than we anticipated and it was bad. The smart thing would’ve been to retreat but we knew that the guy would move and Geoff didn’t want to blow our shot just because we were taken by surprise, so he told us to stick with the plan.”

Trevor stops to take a breath, the words spilling out with such haste that he barely has time to breathe. He feels oddly nervous. Verbalizing the source of his fear is a lot harder than just replaying it over and over in his head. Alfredo waits patiently for him to continue.

“I got cornered,” Trevor starts again, squeezing his eyes shut briefly as he imagines it yet again, the pure fear he felt surging through him, the certainty that he was about to die. “There were about five dudes and they were all armed to the teeth. I knew I was going to die there, in that fucking hallway, and that they would just find me while they were combing the place for loot.” He runs his hands over his face and feels Alfredo’s fingertips lightly brush against his knee. A brief reassurance, but a reassurance nonetheless.

“Suddenly, out of fucking nowhere, Matt and Michael show up,” Trevor continues. “Michael shot a guy in the head, and at the same time Matt tackled the dude closest to me, but there were still more and I just-- I fucking froze, Alfredo, and maybe everything would’ve been okay if I would’ve just fucking _shot one of them_. One of them shot at me and missed even though he was literally two fucking feet away from me, but they shot at me again and--” he stops to suck in a breath, covering his face and shaking his head as the scene replays vividly in his head.

“And?” Alfredo prompts gently. His fingertips return to Trevor’s knee.

“Michael jumped in front of me,” Trevor replies quietly. “He didn’t die, obviously, but he got shot twice before Matt managed to take them down. And I realized how fucking useless I am, and how scared I was of dying, and of everyone else dying.”

Alfredo is silent, and when Trevor chances a look at his face he is staring down at the couch cushions. He seems to be chewing the inside of his lip.

“So there it is,” Trevor says to fill the silence. “My stupid reason for being a pussy.”

“It’s not stupid, and you’re not a pussy,” Alfredo says sternly. “You literally could’ve died. Michael could’ve died. Any one of you could’ve died in that whole mission.” He wets his lips, looking up at Trevor then. “Why didn’t you talk to anyone about it?”

“I guess I was afraid everyone would think I was a coward,” Trevor responds. “And then I ran away, like a coward. Fat lot of good that’s done me.”

“I think your friends would be really sad to learn that you were struggling with this and didn’t tell them.”

Tears spring to Trevor’s eyes. “I know,” he says, voice quivering. Teardrops start to roll down his cheeks. “I know, I know, but I just _couldn’t_ tell them, I don’t-- I don’t know why.”

Alfredo looks at him for a few long moments, eyebrows knit together, before all in a rush he reaches out and grabs Trevor’s shoulders, pulling Trevor towards him. Trevor’s head falls against Alfredo’s shoulder and it’s like being embraced just brings all of his raw emotions to the surface, causing him to cry even harder. Alfredo is wearing cologne and it reminds Trevor of the kind that Jeremy wears.

“I fucked up, ‘Fredo,” Trevor moans pitifully as Alfredo rubs soothing circles into his back.

“It’s okay, Trev, you’ll get it figured out. We’ll figure it out together.”

Trevor thinks, in the back of his head, that it’s probably really weird to be crying on the shoulder of a practical stranger. He doesn’t know very much about Alfredo, and here he is, having another fucking breakdown on his couch. But right now, all he needs is for someone to hold him, and if that someone is Alfredo, then so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of the most enjoyable parts of writing this fic was the treyfredo scenes so i hope everyone is ready for me to write that soon :))))


	5. Chapter 5

Lindsay is trying to keep something from Geoff. She might not think he notices, but oh, he does, and he is _dying_ to know.

But, business first.

“So, as you may remember from our group meeting before the heist, our next order of business is finishing our sweep of this smuggler group,” Geoff says, casually leaning back into his office chair. Lindsay sits on the other side of his mahogany desk, fidgeting like crazy.

“Yeah, yeah, I remember,” Lindsay says, a little too eagerly, trying to cover up her nervousness. “I’m boots on the ground, right? Once we find where the dude is?”

“Correct, but,” and Geoff pauses for a second, as he does any time he even gets close to speaking about Trevor. He exhales. “We’ve had a bit of a bump in the road while we find someone competent enough to make up Trevor’s work. So, in the mean time, I’m going to send you and Jeremy out to scout one of their other properties. Might as well do something productive until we can root out the leader.”

Lindsay nods in agreement, crossing and uncrossing her legs. Geoff sighs. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“What? Nothing, it’s nothing!” Lindsay responds almost immediately. She seems to realize she said it too quickly, too hurriedly, shrinking beneath the weight of Geoff’s convcting gaze. “It’s nothing,” she repeats, firmly. It sounds almost like she’s convincing _herself_ that it’s nothing.

“You know, Lindsay, if you’re keeping something from me I’m gonna find out sooner or later,” Geoff says, leaning forward in his seat to rest his elbows on the desk. 

“Trevor is alive,” Lindsay bursts out, and once she starts she can’t seem to stop. “He’s in Texas, my friend Fiona told me, she’s friends with the dude he’s staying with, Alfredo--”

Geoff can’t help but gape for a moment. _Literally, what the fuck._ “Wait, wait, hang on,” he says, holding up a hand to stop Lindsay. Her rapid fire speech tapers off into under the breath murmurs while Geoff pieces through this information. “Can you get ahold of him?” he asks then.

Lindsay shakes her head. “I only know because Fiona went to Alfredo’s apartment and squeezed the deets out of Alfredo.”

“Is this the same Alfredo that we worked with last year?” Geoff asks, and Lindsay nods. Geoff considers for a moment, mouth twisting. “I might be able to find his phone number. He’s a little out of network, but it shouldn’t be too hard.”

Lindsay is silent, looking down at her hands. She seems to be thinking about something. Eventually, she says, “Does this mean that he faked his death?”

“Not necessarily, but also…” Geoff lets out an annoyed huff of air. “I can’t think of any other alternative. I can’t think of any reason that he would’ve ended up in fucking Texas if he wasn’t trying to get away from us.”

Lindsay nods in acknowledgement. She appears to be chewing the inside of her lip. “I feel betrayed,” she says then, meeting Geoff’s eyes again. “It might be wrong, but I’m just-- I don’t understand why he did it.”

“I don’t think anyone does,” Geoff replies, though he personally has some ideas. “If you don’t wanna chat about it anymore, you’re free to go.”

Lindsay rises from her chair, but she lingers for a moment. “What are you going to do?” she asks, and she seems concerned.

“I’m not going to hunt him down, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Geoff says, unable to stop the small smile that breaks across his face. Lindsay, always worried about causing other people grief no matter what they’ve done to her. “I’ll probably call Alfredo, make sure that Trevor is okay. And from there… well, I’m not sure.”

Lindsay nods softly, heading for the door. “And hey, Lindsay?” Geoff pipes up before she can leave. She half-turns to face him again. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Lindsay smiles at him. “Can’t keep a secret to save my damn life.”

“Sometimes that’s a good thing,” Geoff assures her. She smiles wider and departs.

Now that he’s alone, the office door shut tightly, Geoff feels a stab of some indescribable emotion. Satisfaction, maybe, and pride, both that Matt’s concerns were valid and that he was ultimately right. Betrayal, because Geoff likes to think of his crew as a family and treats them as such. He can’t help but wonder if he did something, directly, to make Trevor want to leave-- to make him want to leave so bad that he would make everyone think he died just to do it.

He swears under his breath then, suddenly remembering-- it wasn’t anything he did, no. It was what happened at that damn smuggler Taylor’s safehouse. Geoff curses himself for not thinking of it sooner; Trevor was obviously shaken by the experience, but he seemed to recover so swiftly that Geoff thought it wasn’t an issue. Foolish. Things like that stick with you, he should know better than that. 

In any case, his first order of business is to speak to Alfredo.

It takes maybe an hour to secure Alfredo’s current phone number, and even then the wait time is only the amount of time it takes Geoff’s buddy in Austin to look at his text. Geoff stares at the dialpad for a long while, Alfredo’s number already punched in, wondering if he should really do it.

_I have to be sure._

_I have to make sure he’s really okay._

He presses the talk button and raises his phone to his ear.

It doesn’t take long for him to answer. “Alfredo speaking,” he says, and there is a professional note to his voice, obviously only expecting work calls to this phone number.

“Hey there Alfredo, it’s Geoff Ramsey,” Geoff says, and he can’t help but smile when he imagines Alfredo’s face slackening in horror. Always good to be able to flex the name. 

It takes Alfredo a few seconds to catch up. Geoff hears the sound of a door shutting. “Uh, hey Geoff, it’s been a while, huh?” Alfredo says, obviously trying to overcome his fumble in the conversation. “What’cha need?”

“Your friend Fiona likes to talk, huh,” Geoff says, and he feels a bit dangerous. Maybe he shouldn’t be taunting Alfredo like this, maybe he should speak plainly. He runs a hand over his beard, smoothing it.

He hears Alfredo sigh heavily. “Okay, yeah. He’s here. God, I don’t even know where to begin.”

“That makes two of us, buddy.” Geoff exhales through his nose, then, after a moment’s consideration, pulls out the bottle of whiskey that he keeps in his desk drawer. He’s got a feeling that he’s gonna need it. “What has he told you?”

“A fuckin’ lot, Geoff.”

Geoff frowns. “Is he… y’know, okay?”

“To be honest? No, he isn’t. He’s had like seventeen mental breakdowns since he got here and him overhearing me telling Fiona about it hasn’t helped him out. But like, what the hell was I supposed to do? Fiona’s friends with Lindsay and she would’ve known about his death-- well, fake death-- anyway.”

“No one’s faulting you, dude,” Geoff replies. “I’m not going to bring the hammer down on him or anything.”

“I just think it’s fucked up that he thought that was his only option,” Alfredo says all in a rush. “Like, I’ve never gotten the vibe from you that you would… look down on someone for being scared and wanting out.”

Alfredo is right.

About five years ago, way before Jeremy and co. joined the B-Team, one of Geoff’s main crew members had a close call. Infected gunshot wound to the chest, uncomfortably close to his heart. It wasn’t the first time that he’d been in the line of fire, or even seriously injured, but it was… grave for a few days, until the antibiotics kicked in. After that, he told Geoff that he was done, and the manner in which he had presented it had told Geoff that he was gearing up for an argument, maybe a brawl, maybe an execution. Equal parts defiant and terrified. But Geoff let him go, without a fuss, and now he’s engaged and living happily in the suburbs outside of Los Santos. Geoff guaranteed him protection, just like all of the other civilians that he’s friendly with. He still pops in every now and again, just to say hi, but never for a job.

Geoff tells Alfredo this, albeit a condensed version without many identifying details. He doesn’t like divulging civilian identities lest it get them in trouble.

Alfredo knows anyway. He swears under his breath. “Damn. Ray, right?” He takes Geoff’s silence as confirmation. “So that’s where he went. Damn. Did Trevor know?”

Geoff shakes his head, unsure, as if Alfredo can see it. “I’m not sure. It’s kind of common knowledge among the people that were working for me at the time, because I had to explain why I had to hire another sniper when Ray was so damn good. But not many of the newbies were privy to the story.” Geoff kicks himself internally for never bringing it up. But, then again, Trevor had never said anything about wanting out. Geoff sighs, finally pouring himself a glass of that whiskey.

“I’m just frustrated,” Geoff continues. “I just wish he would’ve told someone. Anybody.”

“Dude, he didn’t even tell me until the day of the heist,” Alfredo supplies helpfully. “He asked me a few months ago if I’d be down with him coming to visit, and I said yeah, but I didn’t know that he was like… fake-dying.”

Geoff hums thoughtfully. This paired with Matt’s account of the state of Trevor’s apartment tells Geoff that this was a last minute decision, one that Trevor probably agonized over for quite some time.

“But, yeah, he’s okay,” Alfredo continues when Geoff doesn’t say anything else. “Like, physically. I don’t know what his plans are, but I know he doesn’t want to stay with me for longer than necessary. I’m kind of worried, because as far as I know he doesn’t have any other contacts around here and he’s running low on cash.” Exhale. “He’s scared.”

 _Scared of me._ Geoff finds that the thought hurts him. “Alright. Well, thank you Alfredo. Keep him safe for me.”

Alfredo chuckles a bit. “No problem. I’ll, uh… I’ll be around, if you need anything else.”

They say their goodbyes and Geoff sets his phone face-down on the desk, taking a long drink of his whiskey.

He’s kind of impressed, to be quite honest. Maybe the whole ‘asking Alfredo if he can visit’ thing is unrelated, but if it isn’t, that means Trevor had indeed been carrying this around for months, probably since that close call. And, while not completely airtight, his plan was _good_ \-- such a heist like they pulled should’ve carried little risk, even though Geoff had planned for it (and therefore felt that Trevor’s death was his fault, in no small part). Nobody was expecting someone to die.

But now this leaves Geoff to figure out what he’s going to do about it.

He could just leave it alone. If Trevor wanted out so badly, maybe Geoff should just drop it. But, if Alfredo is right, and Trevor really does leave, he has no other friends and no money. Even if the tang of betrayal is sharp in Geoff’s mouth, he still doesn’t like the thought of Trevor being out in the cold until he can, presumably, find a more normal line of work. 

Geoff could attempt to contact him directly, try to get Trevor to understand that he doesn’t have to be dead to get away from the crew-- he doesn’t have to run away to get out from under Geoff’s influence.

_Maybe I’m not the only person he’s running from._

Geoff considers this. It’s not hard to tell that Trevor, Jeremy, and Matt all had a… _thing_. Geoff isn’t sure what to classify it as, but it went somewhere beyond regular friendship. Maybe Trevor is running from them too.

_God, I can’t let them know._

_But they deserve to know. They’re still fucking devastated._

_But they’ll be devasted in a different way if they find out._

Geoff sighs and finishes his drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit of perspective from mr. ramsey
> 
> we're almost done! if you've made it this far, thanks for reading!!!!


	6. Chapter 6

Trevor knows who called Alfredo.

He can tell by the stricken look on Alfredo’s face as he quickly bustles out of the room, shutting his bedroom door behind him. He’s far enough away and speaking quietly enough that Trevor can’t hear what he’s saying, but he knows regardless.

Trevor lets out a shaky breath, scrubbing his hands over his face. It’s been a little over a month since the heist and time has not made it better. He decided to stay with Alfredo for the foreseeable future, figuring that if Geoff really wanted to come after him it would not matter where he was in Austin, in Texas, in the country, in the _world_. Better to stay somewhere that’s relatively secure and has a stocked pantry.

He still feels very fragile, always on the verge of tears, remorse and guilt and shame eating him up like a fire in his bones.

Maybe it’s time to cut his losses and call Geoff.

Maybe it’s time to cut his losses and die for real.

It seems like Alfredo is on the phone for ages, but when he finally emerges and Trevor checks his watch, it’s only been about fifteen minutes. If he hadn’t been sure of the subject of the call before, the look that Alfredo gives him just confirms it.

“Look, dude,” Alfredo starts, sitting one couch cushion away from him.

“You are really splendid at keeping your mouth shut, you know that?” Trevor cuts him off snidely. And maybe it’s bad that his complicated emotions are manifesting as anger and irritation towards Alfredo-- he should be grateful. Alfredo doesn’t have to help him, doesn’t have to let Trevor stay with him. So maybe it’s harsh to talk to him this way.

Alfredo doesn’t react the way Trevor expects; he gives Trevor a soft, sheepish smile. “Am I really supposed to lie to the biggest crime lord on the West Coast?” he says, with a somewhat playful lilt to his voice. Trevor scoffs. Alfredo’s smile dissipates. “Well. He’s… concerned, to say the least.” He pauses for a second, maybe waiting for Trevor to say something. Trevor stays silent. “I told him that you were scared, y’know. Scared of him, that he was going to come after you. And it seemed like it upset him.”

It was one thing to feel that way towards Geoff, but another entirely to have Geoff actually know about it. It hurts in a way that Trevor wasn’t expecting. He runs his hands over his face again, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes to keep himself from bursting into tears. It fails.

“I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he says, and it comes out horribly broken. He doesn’t look at Alfredo. “I wish that I had just died for real. It’s not too late--”

“--No,” Alfredo interrupts, a harsh note in his tone. He puts a hand on Trevor’s shoulder, and Trevor lets his hands fall away from his eyes. Tears are swimming in his vision. “No,” Alfredo repeats, still firm. “You know what it’s not too late for? For you to fucking call Geoff and admit you made a mistake.”

Trevor begins to shake his head, but Alfredo tightens his grip on his shoulder. Even so, when he speaks again, his voice is softer. “There’s no shame in being scared, and doing stupid stuff because you were scared,” he says, quieter now. “Geoff seemed to understand, when I was trying to explain it better. I don’t think he’s angry,” he adds, and God, if that isn’t at the forefront of Trevor’s mind. “He just seems… really hurt. Hurt that you didn’t… trust him enough, I guess, to tell him that you were scared.”

Trevor takes a shuddering breath, wiping the tears off his cheeks with the heels of his hands. He finds that his hands are shaking. “Should I call him?” he asks, whispering, knowing what the answer is.

“ _Yes_ ,” Alfredo says emphatically. 

Trevor sighs. “I’m ashamed,” he admits sadly, not meeting Alfredo’s eyes, looking at the space between his collarbones.

“It’s okay,” Alfredo says, and he seems like he means it. 

Maybe it is okay. Maybe it is okay that Trevor made a mistake, because he was scared of dying, scared of his occupation, scared of the person he was becoming with every passing dead cop and shotgun shell. He made a mistake because he tried to deal with it on his own, instead of telling someone else-- if not Geoff, then the people who care about him, the people who love him more than anything else. He foolishly thought that they would be disappointed in him, would ridicule him for being a coward, would be angry at him because they all got in this game together.

“They’re all going to hate me,” Trevor moans, the thought striking him harder than it ever has before.

“Please, Trevor,” Alfredo says, and he waits until Trevor makes eye contact before continuing. “Please call him.”

Trevor wipes his eyes again, staring at Alfredo for a long few moments, feeling his bottom lip quivering. He then tears his eyes away and grabs his phone off of the coffee table before he can lose the motivation to do so.

“I’ll leave you alone,” Alfredo says, standing. Trevor kind of doesn’t want him to leave, but he doesn’t say anything as Alfredo retreats to his room.

Trevor stands up as well, buzzing with nervous energy. He turns his phone over and over in his hands, heart beating fast.

Calling Geoff would mean admitting to himself that he really is a coward, in every sense of the word, unable to stick with just one plan. 

He kind of wants to throw up.

He heads out to Alfredo’s balcony, then, phone clutched in his hands so hard that he thinks the plastic will crack at any moment. He barely has to think to remember Geoff’s number, the same number Geoff has had for years just because so many people need to get ahold of him that it’s tedious to change his number regularly. Once the digits are punched in, Trevor takes a deep, drawn out breath before pressing ‘talk’ and putting the phone to his ear.

The phone rings once, twice. “Hello?”

It is all Trevor can do to not sob. “Geoff?” he croaks, sounding utterly pathetic.

“Holy shit, Treyco?” Geoff asks, and he sounds-- Trevor can’t quite place the emotion he hears in Geoff’s voice. Disbelief, maybe. Concern. Excitement? “Hey, buddy. I bet ‘Fredo came and talked to you, huh? Sorry that I’ve been like, meddling in your business.”

Trevor is oddly touched by the way Geoff does seem genuinely sorry, and also by the fact that Geoff cared enough about him to not just say _fuck him, he left us so he can go die_. He was concerned. He called Alfredo to see if Trevor was okay, instead of just leaving it alone.

“God, Geoff,” Trevor positively wails, before putting a hand over his mouth and taking a shuddering breath. “I really fucked up,” he says, quieter this time.

Geoff laughs, and maybe there’s something bitter in it. “Yeah, I guess you did, buddy,” he says, and Trevor is scared for a moment, scared that Geoff’s demeanor is going to switch and he’s going to detail just how hard Trevor can go fuck himself. “Boy, where to start,” Geoff says, almost to himself. “First of all, I’m kind of mad at you, but just because-- god, Trevor, I wish you had just fucking talked to someone.”

Trevor does too. “I know,” he says, voice cracking. He lets out a little huff of a laugh, then, and continues with, “Classic me, right, working out my problems by myself and coming to the wildest fucking solution possible?”

Geoff laughs a little too. “I guess so.” A pause. Trevor doesn’t know what to say. “I want you back, buddy,” Geoff continues. “Even if you don’t want to work for me, Trevor, I don’t want you to be out in bumfuck nowhere doing jobs for some fuckin’ meth kingpin or something. Or, god fucking forbid, working at _Kroger_.”

Trevor lets out a startled laugh, both at Geoff’s joke and at the raw honesty in his voice. “I was scared that everyone would be mad at me for feeling the way I did,” he says, figuring he should afford Geoff the same honesty. “And now everyone is going to hate me.”

He can practically see Geoff shaking his head emphatically. “No, no, no, Trevor, I don’t think they’re going to hate you,” he says, and he sounds on the verge of tears. “I think they will be upset, yeah, and irritated, but I think above all else they will be… hurt you didn’t tell them, and relieved that you are actually, physically okay and alive.”

Trevor briefly thinks about seeing them again, seeing Jeremy’s face drop in shock and then crinkle in happiness, Matt punching him in the shoulder none too kindly but then embracing him shortly thereafter. He can’t seem to stop crying. “Can I come back?” Trevor asks, voice breaking pitifully.

“Of course,” Geoff says immediately, almost desperately. “Of course, Trevor, I’ll set you up in a nice apartment and I’ll keep you safe, buddy. You don’t have to do shit for me anymore.” There is something intense and fierce in Geoff’s voice, and it’s enough to convince Trevor that Geoff is telling the truth.

Trevor wipes his eyes once again but more tears flow down anyway. “Thank you,” he says, voice barely audible. “For not hating me for this.”

“I coud never hate someone for being scared and wanting out,” Geoff replies kindly. “I just wish you’d done it a different way.”

They are both silent, for a moment. Geoff sighs. “Lindsay was the one who spilled the beans to me, so I can almost guarantee that Matt and Jeremy know by now.” Geoff pauses a moment. “Jeremy at least. Him and Lindsay are out on a job as we speak, I’m sure Lindsay is about to burst.”

Trevor can’t help but smile, thinking of Lindsay valiantly trying to keep his secret safe and then failing miserably. “I kinda figured as much,” he responds. “It’s fine, they can kick my ass. It’s not like I don’t deserve it.”

Geoff seems to agree, as he laughs and doesn’t say anything to disprove this sentiment. “Well, buddy, just let me know when you’re ready to leave. I’ll buy you a plane ticket.”

Trevor smiles again, utterly overwhelmed by how genuinely kind Geoff is. “Thank you, Geoff. Really.”

“Anything for my boy Treyco,” Geoff says, and Trevor can hear the smile in his voice. “Talk again soon?” His voice turns up at the end. He must be afraid that Trevor is saying all of this just to make Geoff feel better, just to get Geoff off his back.

Trevor nods, just to cement it for himself. “Yeah, I’ll text you soon. Gotta tie up some things with ‘Fredo first.”

“Alrighty. Stay safe, Trevor.”

“You too.”

Geoff hangs up first and Trevor listens to the empty line for a moment, still somewhat shocked. He… really, truly wasn’t expecting Geoff to sincerely understand and not want to knock his head off his shoulders for being so dumb. He smiles to himself, then, feeling something warm replacing the cold lump of regret that’s been sitting in his chest for weeks.

Trevor turns and jumps when he finds Alfredo standing in the kitchen, watching him openly. Alfredo smiles sheepishly and pushes the balcony door open. “Sorry, dude,” he says. “I didn’t hear much, promise.”

Trevor returns his smile. “It’s okay, you already know too much anyway. Speaking of which, I gotta kill you now.” Alfredo pushes at his shoulder good-naturedly, and Trevor chuckles. “Seriously, though, you are literally the worst at keeping secrets. Fiona asked you one question, dude! One question! And you told this woman my life’s story!”

“I didn’t tell her your _life’s story_ ,” Alfredo says defensively, crossing his arms dramatically. “You don’t get it, man, if you don’t tell Fiona something she’s going to beat it out of you one way or another.”

Trevor’s joking anger dissipates, replaced with nothing but a pure, friendly affection for Alfredo. “You’re a good dude,” he says, and it seems to surprise Alfredo, but he quickly recovers and smiles.

“You too,” Alfredo says. “When you headin’ back?”

“Oh, so you didn’t hear much but you heard _that_.” Trevor smiles at Alfredo’s somewhat sour expression. “I dunno. I have to…” he lets out a sigh. “Have to prepare. To talk to them.”

Alfredo nods. “Well, you’re welcome to my couch for as long as you need. I’m between jobs right now, so you won’t miss out on my sweet, sweet company.”

“Well isn’t that a relief,” Trevor says sarcastically, but honestly, it is. To be honest, these past couple weeks is the most he’s ever spoken to Alfredo beyond yelling at him for shooting him in the head while they were playing Battlefield, but he feels like Alfredo understands him in a different way than the crew members he’s been with for years.

God, he misses them. But he’s not lying, he really does have to prepare himself-- for the anger, the crying, the maybe-ass kicking he’s going to have to endure. He’s still afraid that they’re going to hate him for making them go through this. Hopefully it’ll be worth it, just to have a clean conscience about it.

First, he needs a nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yknow now that im almost done posting it, i think it wouldve been better to forego the chapters and just post it in one long oneshot  
> huh  
> well we've made it this far so i guess it's fine LMAO


	7. Chapter 7

Lindsay is acting strange.

They are on a recon… well, Jeremy wouldn’t call it a mission, because they’ve just been sitting on a roof in the blazing California heat watching a warehouse through their binoculars. They’re not here to kill anyone or steal anything, not yet-- just checking out their security, trying to get a glimpse at the goods within the walls. Not exactly exciting enough to be called a mission, but a necessary task nonetheless.

Jeremy chalks it up to the sheer awkwardness that everyone a little less acquainted with Trevor has had towards Jeremy since his death. Still, he asks, “Is something up?”

Lindsay is looking through her binoculars intently, elbows resting on the small ledge at the edge of the roof. “No, no, nothing is wrong,” she says, but her voice is tight. She keeps her binoculars up.

Jeremy sighs, a wave of irritation washing over him. “I’m tired of people acting like this towards me,” he says without really thinking. “I mean, yeah, he’s dead, and it still fucking hurts, but we have work to do, the world-- the world moves on.” And sure, it hurts to say it out loud, but it’s been a month and it’s time for _everyone_ to start getting over it, including himself.

Lindsay puts her binoculars to the side, rising from her laying position and sitting up to face Jeremy. Jeremy looks at her warily. “Jeremy, he’s-- God, I mean, Geoff didn’t tell me _not_ to say anything but like I still probably shouldn’t say anything, most of all to you, like _fuck dude_ , but you really need to know and I can’t--”

Jeremy raises a hand to stop her babbling. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asks-- more like demands. Something cold stabs through his heart, mind instantly jumping back to about a week after the heist, when Matt was-- _suspecting something_.

“He’s not dead, Jeremy, he ran away to fucking Texas,” Lindsay says glumly, shoulders slumping in something like defeat.

Jeremy’s stomach swoops, and he stares at her blankly for a few long moments. He feels like the cogs in his brain have ground to an utter halt. He begins to slowly shake his head. “No, I-- I saw that car, Lindsay, there’s no way--” he cuts off, looking at Lindsay, eyes wide and pleading. _Tell me you’re lying. Tell me you’re playing some sick joke._

“I heard it from my friend, Fiona,” Lindsay says, not looking at Jeremy anymore. She fidgets with the rings on her fingers. “He’s staying with some guy named Alfredo, we’ve worked with him a couple times, I guess that’s how Trevor knew him.”

Jeremy feels like he’s going to throw up. “If this is supposed to be a joke,” he says slowly, raising a hand, “it’s not a very funny one, Lindsay.”

Lindsay shakes her head. “No, no, you can talk to Geoff about it, I already told him. I’m sure he’s called Alfredo by now.”

Jeremy’s brain is beginning to catch up, processing the information that Lindsay is giving him with all the speed of a 2009 Dell desktop. _If he’s not dead, and furthermore not dead and also in fucking_ Texas, _that means--_

That means he planned it.

He laughs, but it rings hollow and somewhat bitter. “So you’re telling me that he fucking faked his own death,” he says, just to get it out there in the open. Saying it aloud makes it more real.

Lindsay just nods quietly. Jeremy suddenly feels like he’s going to cry and scrubs his hands over his face. “Why would Geoff bother calling Alfredo?” he asks then, and Lindsay seems somewhat surprised by the question.

“He wants to make sure Trevor’s okay,” Lindsay begins, but Jeremy cuts her off swiftly.

“Who _gives a shit_ ,” he hisses, seething with anger that he wasn’t expecting. He expected to feel relief, maybe, that his best friend really is alive, but knowing that he _planned it_ \-- he might not have intentionally meant to hurt Jeremy, but it sure fucking feels like it.

Lindsay is further surprised, eyebrows raising ever more. “Jeremy--”

“If he wants to leave so fucking bad that he would literally _pretend that he died_ , then Geoff should fucking leave him alone.” Jeremy spits, turning away from Lindsay and pointedly staring in the direction of the warehouse. He intends for it to end the conversation, and it does, Lindsay obviously feeling too awkward to say anything else. Jeremy feels bad, but just for her, having to awkwardly sit here with Jeremy positively dripping malice.

Underneath the initial rush of unbridled rage, Jeremy feels… wounded. On an intimate level. Perhaps he had deluded himself into thinking that there was… something between them, something there that would have kept Trevor from doing something this fucking stupid. Joke’s on him, he supposes.

He swears under his breath when he realizes that he’s going to have to tell Matt-- and if Jeremy is pissed, Matt is going to be utterly, irreperably _furious_. And he has every right to be, certainly, but it’s Jeremy that’s going to have to deal with it initially and he’s not sure if he’s ready for it. He finds himself feeling hurt even more for Matt-- he had known him for longer than he’d known Trevor, by a couple years, and he knows firsthand how hard it is to break through Matt’s barriers and earn his trust. Matt trusted Trevor, almost as much as he trusts Jeremy, 

Somehow, the knowledge that Trevor is alive and breathing, somewhere that isn’t _here_ , hurts worse than the initial idea that he was dead. Jeremy’s not sure how to deal with it yet, so he brings his binoculars back up to his eyes and focuses on the task at hand.

A couple more hours of scouting pass uneventfully, with them both dutifully taking notes about the amount of guards present as well as the type of ordnance that appears to be stored within. They pack it in and drive back to HQ, with Jeremy driving and Lindsay sitting in the passenger’s seat staring out the window.

“Okay, so,” Lindsay eventually pipes up, and Jeremy grits his teeth. He has a feeling he won’t like what Lindsay is going to say. “I’m not saying that what he did is right, by any means, but I just want you to understand that it seems like he was really scared.”

“Scared of what?” Jeremy shoots back testily.

“The work we do, Jeremy, and the people we deal with, and-- he was scared of _dying_.”

“I’m scared of dying and I haven’t faked my fucking death,” Jeremy replies, hands tightening around the steering wheel. Lindsay doesn’t have anything to say to that. 

This tidbit of information only increases his upset-- knowing that Trevor was dealing with these feelings, something that they all have dealt with at one point or another, and didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t let anyone help him figure it out and work through it. Thought the only way to get out was to die, literally or otherwise.

_We really weren’t as close as I thought we were, huh?_

The rest of the drive passes uneventfully but slowly, with no more conversation. The sun is setting by the time Jeremy pulls into HQ’s parking lot, and Lindsay gets out swiftly after he turns the car off. He’s glad for it-- he almost immediately lets his forehead fall against the steering wheel and bursts into tears, anger fading away into sheer, raw pain. He imagines all of the things he would’ve told Trevor, with them wrapped up in the covers together, maybe with Matt there too, maybe not. All of the ways he would’ve reassured him that Jeremy would do anything to keep him safe. And sure, maybe Trevor would’ve laughed it off, acted like it was no big deal, but in the end maybe Jeremy could have settled his mind, kept him from worrying too much.

Someone taps on the window and it makes him jump. He sucks in a breath when he looks up and sees that it’s Matt, his hands cupped around his eyes so he can see into the window. His brows knit together when he realizes Jeremy’s been crying.

Jeremy wordlessly unlocks the door, giving Matt the option to interrupt his crying session if he wants. Matt hears the click and opens the door almost immediately.

“What’s wrong, dude, did something happen out on the job? Lindsay looked really upset too.”

Jeremy doesn’t even know where to _begin_. He starts by twisting to face Matt better so he can outstretch his arms, Matt leaning in so he can embrace Jeremy. He holds him tightly and for a few long moments all Jeremy can do is cry and think _neither of us deserved this_.

“What happened?” Matt asks again, voice soft, cheek resting against the top of Jeremy’s head.

Jeremy turns his head to the side so Matt will be able to hear him speak. “You were right,” he moans pitifully, hands clutching the back of Matt’s jacket.

“I’m sure that I’m right about a lot of things, but what in particular?”

Jeremy can’t even bring himself to smile at Matt’s attempted joke. “Trevor’s not dead,” he whispers, and can actually feel Matt stiffen. Jeremy pulls back so he can look at Matt’s face, and then wishes he hadn’t-- it hurts, seeing the same emotions Jeremy’s been wrestling with for hours mirrored on Matt’s face.

“I’m sorry, you wanna run that by me again?” Matt says, not holding Jeremy anymore but keeping his hands on his shoulders.

“He’s staying in Texas, with that one sniper guy we worked with that one time, Alfredo Diaz?”

Matt nods brusquely. “Yeah, I remember him.”

“Yeah, well, he told his friend, and his friend told Lindsay, and Lindsay told Geoff and now me. And now I’m telling you.”

“This is the worst game of telephone I’ve ever played,” Matt says, and Jeremy barks out a laugh, though he doesn’t feel amused. It really is the worst. Matt pulls his hands away to run them over his face, irrespective of his glasses. He’s quiet for a moment. His hands curl into fists. “I’m going to beat his fucking ass.”

And there it is. Jeremy knew that Matt would react with anger at having his trust broken, at being betrayed in this manner. And while Jeremy doesn’t know all the ins and outs of the way Matt feels about Trevor, he guesses that it’s not dissimilar from his own: Trevor was an integral part of their lives, someone who lived and breathed and slept and ate and worked beside them every single day, someone who they shared laughs and touches and tears with. Jeremy thought there was enough there for Trevor to feel some kind of obligation to him, to _them_.

Jeremy nods, hands coming to grab Matt’s forearms gently. “I know you are, I’m going to either help or film it.”

Matt relaxes a bit at Jeremy’s stab at humor. He flexes his hands a few times, then swears. “Honestly, I came up with the idea but it is still literally un-fucking-believable. I just… I thought…” Matt makes some vague gestures, and then all at once his face scrunches and the tears start flowing. “I thought he cared about us,” he says, his voice breaking. “I thought he cared enough that he wouldn’t-- he wouldn’t do--”

“I know,” Jeremy says, tears welling up again for him too. Matt pulls him to his chest again, holding him even tighter than before. 

Geoff already has whiskey poured into three glasses when Matt and Jeremy walk into his office.

Matt doesn’t think he’s stopped shaking with rage since Jeremy told him, but seeing Geoff relaxes him somewhat. There is only one seat at Geoff’s desk and Matt lets Jeremy take it, standing behind him. After a moment’s pause, he puts a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder.

“Well, first,” Geoff says, taking his glass into his hand and gesturing to the other two offhandedly, “how was the job today, Jeremy?”

“Huh? Oh, it was fine,” Jeremy makes a vague gesture intended to convey the sentiment that this can _wait_. “Light security, excellent goods, whatever, Lindsay has all the notes.”

Geoff snorts, taking a drink. “Fantastic, we’ll get that together soon. Anyway, Lindsay dropped by and told me that she told you,” he looks at Jeremy, “so I figured I would go ahead and just call you both in.” He sighs, fixing them both with a strange expression that Matt doesn’t quite know how to decode. “This is complicated, y’all.”

“You can fuckin’ say that again,” Jeremy mumbles, finally reaching forward to grab a glass. He hands it over his shoulder to Matt with a small smile, then grabs the remaining one. “What are you going to do about it?” Jeremy asks then.

“I’m attempting to do what I would’ve done if I had just fucking known about it in the first place,” Geoff says, and his tone says that he’s obviously still bothered about Trevor’s struggles being kept from him. “I’ve spoken to him already and I offered to do for him what I’ve been doing for Ray for five years.”

Matt’s brow furrows-- he’s heard some snippets of things about Ray, the main crew’s former sniper, but he doesn’t know all the details. Jeremy apparently does, because he very frankly yells, “What the fuck, Geoff?”

“What the hell do you want me to do, Jeremy?” Geoff responds, not quite yelling but almost. “I know it’s a touchy subject and that it fucking _hurts_ , but he’s got nobody out there but Alfredo--”

“Then let Alfredo fucking take care of him!” Jeremy yells, gesturing wildly enough that some of his liquor sloshes out and lands on his knee. This seems to remind him that he has a drink and he takes a large swig of it.

Matt takes advantage of Geoff’s momentary silence. He speaks slowly, carefully, not wanting to ignite a shouting match. “Y’know, Geoff, you say you understand but I don’t think you really do.”

Geoff sighs. “You’re right, I don’t,” he concedes. “I care about every member of my crew, whether it’s my main guys or my back-up or any of my civilian contacts and everyone in between. And I feel the loss, hard, but I don’t feel it the same way you guys do.”

Jeremy seems to settle, relaxing beneath Matt’s hands. “I just feel really betrayed,” Jeremy says, voice returning to a normal level. “I don’t get it. I thought he told us everything.”

“Guess some things are just too much to face,” Geoff says, setting his glass down on the desk. “I’m paying for his plane ticket home. We’re going to talk more in depth about his future, with or without us, once he gets here.”

Matt’s stomach drops at the mere thought of having to face Trevor. Just thinking about meeting his eyes is enough to make him sick. He resolves, then and there, that he has to punch him. At least once. Jeremy and he did not deserve to be wrecked like this because Trevor was simultaneously afraid of something and afraid to tell anyone about it. _We’re all scared, why did Trevor get to fake his death?_ Matt could never even come _close_ to considering it. When he briefly imagines it, all he can think about is Jeremy in tears, and that’s enough to ward him off it. _Why wasn’t it enough for Trevor?_

“And I don’t want you guys to get into a fucking fistfight,” Geoff warns as if he can read Matt’s thoughts, pointing a threatening finger to the both of them. “You can yell at him, yes, but like I said I’ve spoken to him and he is not doing well.”

 _He doesn’t deserve to be doing well,_ Matt thinks to himself, and then regrets it. Fuck, but he still cares about Trevor, even if Trevor made them all think he was dead for almost six weeks. He’s going to yell at him, yes, and despite Geoff’s warning he still probably will sock him in the jaw, but above all else he just wants to-- to hold him, and press his face into Trevor’s hair and inhale the scent of his shampoo, and lounge in bed with him and show him all of the ways that he is loved and cared for.

It’s made Matt realize how much it really would fucking hurt if any one of them died. And maybe now Matt understands what made Trevor so afraid.

“I’ll go easy on him,” Jeremy says, and Matt can’t see his face but he thinks he is smiling. Jeremy finishes his drink in one go and sets his glass down.

Geoff smiles at the both of them. “Let me know if y’all need anything,” he says, voice soft and gentle. “And I fuckin’ mean it. _Anything_. Don’t jump straight to fake-death.”

Matt laughs, and Jeremy glances up at him. He seems more at ease now, but there is still something fragile about him. Matt knows they’re both going to cry again later, but for now they exit Geoff’s office.

“Are you still going to kick his ass?” Jeremy asks as they walk down the hallway. As they walk, their hands brush occasionally.

“Yes,” Matt says, grabbing Jeremy’s hand and lacing their fingers together. “Are you still going to join and-or film?”

“Yes,” Jeremy replies, squeezing Matt’s hand.

_No matter what happens with Trevor, at least I have Jeremy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> matt and jeremy are in the "anger" stage of the stages of grief
> 
> man i didnt realize how long this fuckin fic turned out when i was writing it


	8. Chapter 8

“What should I say?” Trevor asks out of the blue while Alfredo is making some, well, alfredo.

“I don’t know, dude, I’ve met these dudes once,” Alfredo replies, and maybe it seems like he’s just saying that to make Trevor think for himself or something like that, but it’s the truth. His only contact with them has been purely professional, even if they did have some playful banter via the intercom during the couple of jobs that Geoff brought him in on. 

He puts a lid on his sauce and turns to find Trevor standing by the kitchen table, looking rather unsure of himself. He cracks a small smile and comes to lean against the edge of the table. “Dude, it’s gonna be okay.” He stops for a second and reconsiders. “Well. Either it’s gonna be okay or it’s not, but either way it’s not the end of the world.”

Trevor doesn’t look so sure. “They _are_ my world,” he says quietly, then seems to realize what he’s said and instantly flushes red. Alfredo can’t help but grin. “Stop it,” Trevor says.

“Stop what?” Alfredo asks innocently.

“Looking at me like that.”

Alfredo returns to his pan to stir the sauce. “All you have to do is explain yourself and probably have a heart-to-heart with them about what made you feel so afraid in the first place. I’m sure they’ll understand. Damn, I should switch careers to relationship counselor.”

Trevor scoffs. “Yeah, sure. You would violate the confidentiality agreement the first day.”

“You are not wrong.”

“I’m just afraid that I’m going to fuck it up even more than I already have,” Trevor admits. “I don’t know, I think this whole thing has made me realize how actually afraid I am of losing them. Is that dumb? Like one of the reasons I faked my death was _because_ of that, and now it’s even worse.”

“Yeah, but you’re going to talk it out and deal with it this time,” Alfredo points out helpfully, reaching to turn the burner heat down. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“You are literally the worst relationship counselor. Do not quit your day job.”

“I wouldn’t classify sniper as a day job.”

“Don’t quit your night job.”

Alfredo smiles. “Better. Are you ready for some fuckin’ noodles?”

“I am always ready for noodles.”

Alfredo dishes out the food and they eat in silence for a while. Trevor looks very lost in thought, periodically twirling and untwirling noodles around his fork. “What are you thinking about?” he asks softly.

“I’m thinking about the last time I hung out with them outside of work,” Trevor says, not looking up. “We played Mario Kart and Matt kicked our asses-- well, Jeremy finished in second, but I got my ass ultra-kicked, I was like… eighth or something. But anyway, after that we ordered pizza and we then went to bed and I just laid there and thought about how happy I was. I thought about how this was the last time I was going to have fun with them. And then two weeks later I faked my own death.”

“What changed?” Alfredo can’t stop himself from asking. Curious.

“I guess I just spent so long trying to avoid thinking about what happened on that job that once it finally caught up it just… hit hard.” Trevor twirls some noodles around his fork but makes no move to eat them. “But it had been so long ago that I convinced myself that I was stupid for not being able to get over it.”

Alfredo nods in acknowledgement. “Well, in any case, you need to tell them about it. It’ll help with the whole thing, maybe make it easier.”

Trevor nods, then looks up and smiles. “Maybe you _should_ become a counselor.”

“Nah, I like money too much.”

“Hey, being a counselor means you get to scam people’s insurance companies.”

Alfredo takes a bite of his past and then points at Trevor with his fork. “You’ve got a point there.” He chews thoughtfully, then asks, “Have you decided when you’re leaving yet?”

“I haven’t texted Geoff yet, but I think this weekend. I don’t think I’m exactly ready to talk to them but I’m also ready to get it over with. Clear my conscience and all that.”

“Sounds good. Finish your damn dinner, I slaved over the stove for that.”

Trevor can’t help but smile and sets about finishing his plate of food. Satisfied, Alfredo rises to begin cleaning up the dinner-related mess.

It is certainly an interesting situation. If anything, Trevor’s predicament has taught Alfredo the value of communication and being honest about your feelings. Alfredo can’t stop himself from frowning a little down at the kitchen sink as he contemplates the fact that he only has one real friend outside of work. Most of his time is occupied by hopping from one safehouse to another, sitting through briefings with people he either doesn’t know or barely tolerates, and, when on the job, sitting on a rooftop by himself and waiting to line up the right shot. So, if he’s-- not _judging_ , but _critically assessing_ \-- Trevor for not being honest with his feelings, maybe Alfredo needs to admit to himself that he’s kind of fucking lonely.

Another time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the "alfredo eating alfredo" joke is really low-hanging fruit but i took it
> 
> this chunk is short but necessary, this last bit really hurts!!


	9. Chapter 9

Two days. Two days and Jeremy is going to have to look Trevor in the eye again.

Geoff told them this morning-- told them all, since there’s no use in trying to keep it away from the crew at large if Trevor is literally coming back on Sunday. Jeremy is so anxious about it that he feels like he’s going to die.

“I feel sick,” he tells Matt, snuggled up against him in Jeremy’s bed. 

“Like, worried sick or physical sick?”

“I think maybe both. I think the worried sick is making me physically sick.”

Matt’s arm around his shoulders tightens a bit. “It’s all going to be okay, after I break his cheekbone.”

“Please do not break his cheekbone.”

“Okay, I will bruise his cheekbone.”

Jeremy sighs, heavily put upon. “If you have to hurt him, does it have to be the face? That’s his best feature, after all.”

“Not his stunning personality?”

“After this? God no.” Jeremy chuckles, but then amends his statement. “I fucking miss him. I miss everything about him. But I don’t know if it’s going to be the same anymore.”

Matt lets out a long sigh. “I mean, the more I think about it the more I kinda just… wanna forcefully cuddle him and tell him he’s fucking stupid and that I love him.”

Jeremy closes his eyes, envisioning it. After Matt punches Trevor, of course. Thinks about the way that Trevor would smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. Knows that Trevor is going to cry, a lot. “Can you do that to me right now?”

“What part of it?”

“All of it.”

“I’m kind of already cuddling you forcefully, so uh. You’re fucking stupid and I love you.”

A warm feeling washes over Jeremy that he can only describe as reassurance. No matter what, he still has Matt. And, just like when Jeremy thought Trevor was actually dead, he thinks things would be so much better right now if Trevor was tucked against Matt’s other side, making gagging noises at Matt telling them that he loves them, Matt smacking him playfully and telling him to shut up.

Jeremy takes a deep breath, pulling himself out of his reverie. “I love you too, Matt,” he says, tilting his head to look up at him. He’s expecting Matt to make a joke, move the conversation in a different direction than their complicated feelings for each other-- and Trevor, God, despite everything, still Trevor. Instead, Matt just smiles down at him, something sweet and soft in his eyes.

Jeremy leaves it for now, resting his head once more against Matt’s chest while the show on TV says something about aliens building the Great Pyramids. For now, just hearing Matt’s heartbeat is enough.

It’s not every day that one of your crew members fakes their own death and then reconciles with your very powerful boss who then convinces them to come back. Therefore, it becomes a bit of a… party isn’t the right word, but it’s all Jeremy can come up with. There are snacks, and for the first time in a long time the entire crew is there, even Geoff’s main members. It reminds him of the old cliche that families only come together for weddings and funerals.

Jack left an hour ago to pick Trevor up from the airport, and Jeremy finds himself too nervous to do anything but stand in the expansive kitchen, stationed by the counter where the drinks are set up. Matt eventually finds him and wanders over, purposefully bumping his shoulder into Jeremy’s and smiling softly when Jeremy looks up at him.

“In case you’re wondering, I’m not going to punch him here,” Matt says, leaning in so Jeremy can hear him over the din of small talk occurring elsewhere in the building.

“I would hope not,” Jeremy laughs. “I’m sure he’ll come to one of our apartments or something. Then we can kill him for real.”

“Sounds great.”

The front door opens then and Jeremy finds himself unable to look at first, averting his eyes to the floor as some people cheer, while others simply continue the conversations they were already having. It’s more of an excuse to get the whole crew together-- some of these people haven’t even worked with Trevor, don’t know him beyond this dramatic incident.

Jeremy finally finds the courage to glance up and damn, if that isn’t him-- hair smoothed back artfully, eyes crinkling mirthfully as Geoff comes up to him and gives him a hug. Jeremy hears the solo cup in his hand popping as his grip on it tightens, and Matt grabs his wrist.

“Stop, dude, you’re gonna get Pepsi on my fucking shoes.”

Jeremy lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and sets his drink down on the counter. Matt doesn’t let go of his wrist.

He’s not really sure what he was expecting. Trevor looks the same as he always does, though it looks like he has some darker circles under his eyes than usual. The people who actually know and care about him are somewhat swarming him by the front door, coming up to grab his hand or clap him on the shoulder. Jeremy should go up there, but there’s just so much he needs to say and he doesn’t know if he can greet him without bursting into tears.

Trevor’s eyes scan the room and eventually fall on them. His face turns pinched, brows coming together, and he excuses himself from whatever conversation he had gotten roped into. Jeremy stands a little more upright, steeling himself, knowing he’s going to fucking cry, _again_ \--

Trevor stops in front of them, looking back and forth between them for a moment. He looks stricken, like he doesn’t know what to do or say. _The feeling is mutual._

Matt breaks the tension by winding back and punching Trevor in the shoulder, a little too hard to be entirely friendly. Trevor makes a face, rubbing his arm vigorously to dispel the pain, but it’s enough.

“ _God_ ,” Jeremy breathes, stepping forward so he can throw his arms around Trevor’s middle, pulling him close. Trevor holds him right back, desperately, and Jeremy can feel it when Trevor begins to cry. After a few moments, Jeremy feels Matt wrap his arms around both of them, squeezing tight, and for just a moment everything is _okay_. They have to talk later, sure, but just knowing Trevor is _alive_ is enough for Jeremy for now. He manages to not cry, not yet.

Matt releases them first, and Jeremy steps back too. He can’t stop himself from reaching up and cupping Trevor’s face in his hands, just needing to touch him, make sure that he’s really here in front of him and alive. Not just a pile of charred bones. He swipes his thumbs under Trevor’s eyes, wiping the tears away, and Trevor laughs despite himself, turning his face into Jeremy’s palm and covering his hands with his own.

“You’re here,” Jeremy says softly, not really knowing what else to say.

Trevor nods, tears still falling in earnest. “I am,” he says, voice choked, but he sounds so _happy_. He turns to Matt and Jeremy pulls his hands away to allow Trevor to hug Matt, just Matt, knowing that he needs it so, so badly. 

“I’m so sorry,” Trevor practically sobs into Matt’s shoulder, but Jeremy knows it’s directed at him too.

Matt shushes him, wiping his tears as they pull back from one another. “All that matters is that you’re here now,” he says, voice wavering. “We have things to talk about, but right now that’s all we need.”

Trevor nods, seemingly reassured. Jeremy reaches out and briefly runs his hand along Trevor’s forearm, eliciting another smile directed at him. “I fucking missed you, so much,” Jeremy says, so full of feeling that he feels like he’s going to burst. He pushes down his more complicated feelings, the bitterness and irritation and hurt taking a back seat to the prevalent, encompassing feeling of _oh my god he’s alive and he’s here and he’s right in front of me and I love him, I love him, I love him and I can’t lose him_.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Geoff’s voice comes from behind Trevor-- Jeremy hadn’t even noticed him approach. “But, I have to talk to Mr. Collins before he cries so much he passes out.”

Trevor laughs, turning to look at Geoff. They embrace, Geoff thumping him on the back good-naturedly, a big grin on his face when they pull back. “I will return your beloved to you in a few,” Geoff says, directed at Jeremy and Matt.

“Take care of him, he’s fragile,” Jeremy says jokingly, but Trevor follows it up with, “Dude, I really am.”

Geoff laughs, and together they head upstairs. Jeremy feels his absence hard, even though he literally knows where he is and knows where he’s going-- he doesn’t want to be away from Trevor, ever again. And he knows it will fade with time, as things settle back to somewhat-normal, but right now it’s all he can do to not follow them. Just to make sure Trevor doesn’t disappear, like a spectre.

Matt touches Jeremy’s shoulder, just enough to get him to glance over at him. “I’m kinda surprised,” he says. “I expected to be even angrier at him once I actually saw him.”

Jeremy nods, half-turning towards Matt. “I know. It’s like once I saw him, everything I had planned to say to him just like-- melted away.”

Matt nods in agreement. He leaves his hand there, a comforting presence while they wait. Because after Geoff is done with Trevor, it’s time for them to talk it out, and Jeremy is honestly not looking forward to it. It would be much easier if he could just ignore it indefinitely, but it’s kind of impossible to do so-- thinking your best friend is dead is something you don’t get over easily.

 _Everything will be okay._ He hopes so.

“So, what did Geoff have to say?” Jeremy asks, and Matt sees him twisting in the passenger seat so he can look at Trevor. They’re on their way to Jeremy’s apartment so they can have their much needed heart-to-heart, and Trevor has been quiet as the grave in the backseat.

“Oh, he just needed to work out some like, logistical things with me. He’s going to let me keep my apartment.” Trevor hesitates for a second, then says, “I’m out, officially.”

“So that’s that, then,” Matt pipes up, looking at Trevor in the rear view mirror. 

Trevor nods. “Yeah. Could’ve done that months ago.”

“You ruined a perfectly good SUV,” Matt says then, and he finds the words coming out bitter even though he tacks a chuckle onto the end.

Trevor laughs through his nose, looking away from them and out the window instead. “Yeah, I did. Sorry.”

Matt finds that he’s nervous, but about what he can’t really pin down. Maybe he’s nervous about hearing Trevor’s explanation? Maybe he’s worried about the emotions that he’s going to encounter tonight, deep and mostly unexplored? Maybe he’s afraid that when he does explore them, all he will find is irreconcilable rage and resentment? He blows out a breath through his nose.

Above all else, he tries to focus on how, while it might hurt in a different way, at least Trevor isn’t really dead. At least they have a chance to fix this.

They arrive all too soon. Matt switches the ignition off and they all exit the car. Trevor waits for Jeremy to lead the way, looking just as nervous as Matt feels. Jeremy wets his lips and reaches for Trevor’s hand; Trevor grabs onto it eagerly, fingers tangling with Jeremy’s for a second before they slot together nicely. Matt can’t help but smile at the sight, knowing how much it must mean to Trevor to be treated almost-normally. He falls into step beside Jeremy and, after a moment, Jeremy grabs his hand too.

This is how it should be. This is how Matt hopes it will be once it’s all said and done.

Their hand-holding chain has to be broken once they reach the stairs. Jeremy unlocks his door and pushes it open, waiting for the others to enter before he does and then pushing it closed behind him.

“It’s dark as hell in here,” Matt gripes, carefully stepping around furniture so he can turn on the lamp behind the couch.

“What do you expect, it’s dark outside, dipshit.” Jeremy replies, but the humor in his voice sounds forced. 

Now that the room is properly illuminated, Matt’s eyes briefly fall on Trevor and he frowns at how out of place Trevor looks, obviously hesitant, unsure of how he fits into this currently. Matt sighs. This is going to be a hard conversation.

Matt settles onto the couch, leaning with his back against the arm. Jeremy sits down beside him, making a face at Matt’s fragrant feet being so close to him, and Matt responds by shoving Jeremy’s shoulder with his feet. Jeremy laughs, and Matt grins, and then they both look at Trevor at the same time, standing small and sheepish by the door. Matt hears Jeremy sigh.

“Come on, don’t be a stranger,” Jeremy says, gesturing to the armchair. Trevor slowly moves to sit down, not quite looking at either of them. 

Matt sits up a little straighter. “So, boys, where are we starting?” he asks, and both of them turn to look at him before looking at each other.

“Well,” Jeremy begins, and his voice has turned gentle. He shifts in his seat to fully face Trevor. “I want to know what made you afraid. And why you didn’t talk to anyone about it.”

Trevor bites his bottom lip, nodding slowly. Matt guesses that, if it was something bad enough that Trevor would fake his death to avoid confronting it, it must be exceedingly difficult to talk about. He suddenly wishes Trevor was sitting beside him so he could reach over and press his fingers against his arm, just to let him know that they’re here to listen and care about what he has to say.

Trevor thinks for a moment, and then runs his hands over his face, groaning. “It’s kind of complicated.”

“I think we’re kinda expecting it to be complicated,” Matt points out. 

Trevor nods. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He swallows, seeming to collect his thoughts for a moment before he begins. “Do you guys remember the first mission we did as part of this big smuggler takedown, where we went and cleared out one of Taylor’s safehouses?”

Jeremy and Matt both nod in acknowledgement, but then Matt pauses, mind instantly conjuring up an image: an image of a dead end hallway and a bunch of armed mercs.

“Oh, Trevor,” Matt says softly, because now he understands. Jeremy looks at him, open curiosity in his eyes, and Matt remembers then-- it was him and Michael that came looking for Trevor. Jeremy was there but didn’t see it firsthand-- didn’t see Trevor drop his gun with a clatter so he could cover his face with his hands, didn’t see the tear tracks left by the fat teardrops rolling down his face, didn’t see him shaking like a leaf and stumbling as Matt carefully led him out of the house. And suddenly _everything_ makes sense-- the way Trevor had withdrawn after the incident, always having excuses at the ready when they would invite him to dinner or try to get him to join a Siege match. They hadn’t pushed him, didn’t want to force him to talk about something he didn’t want to, but apparently they should have.

“Wait, explain, please,” Jeremy says, looking back to Trevor. “I mean, we talked about it, but-- I thought you handled it?”

Trevor laughs, devoid of humor. “Yeah, I thought I handled it too. I just couldn’t stop thinking about how close I came to dying, and how close someone else actually came to dying because of me being a stupid piece of shit.” He shakes his head, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “Michael could’ve died, just because I fucking _froze_ \--”

“Listen to me, Trevor,” Matt interrupts fiercely. Trevor doesn’t look up, but Matt continues anyway. “It is not your fault that you got fucking cornered, that could’ve happened to any one of us. I’m-- I’m happier that Michael and I found you and got hurt and that I didn’t just find your fucking corpse.”

Trevor looks up at him then, eyes swimming with tears. His bottom lip quivers for a second and he looks away, squeezing his eyes shut. “It doesn’t matter--”

“Yes, it does!” Matt cries. “Is this why you did what you did? Because you convinced yourself that you don’t matter enough for someone to take a bullet for you? Well fucking newsflash, this whole thing should’ve been enough to show you that people would be fucking _devastated_ if you died.” His voice has begun to shake.

“That’s what makes it so fucking horrible,” Trevor says after a moment, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I know people care about me, but I couldn’t make myself really _believe it_. I couldn’t make myself believe that you guys would actually give a shit about whatever I was going through.”

“And that fucking hurts, Trevor,” Jeremy chips in, voice thick. Matt glances at him, finds that Jeremy’s eyes are filling with tears too. “I don’t know what we ever did to make you think that.”

“I don’t either,” Trevor nearly whispers, sinking back into the chair.

“Come here, please,” Jeremy pleads, and Matt scoots back accordingly, freeing up the middle cushion. Trevor looks at them, stricken, gaze flicking searchingly between them. He settles on looking at Matt, and he must find something in Matt’s expression because he rises then and comes to sit between them.

“Now, you listen to me,” Jeremy says, gently grabbing Trevor’s chin and turning his face towards him. He leaves his hand there, fingertips resting against Trevor’s jaw. “I know that Geoff is letting you out of the business and you’re not going to be in the field anymore, but I want you to know that I am still going to do _anything_ to keep you safe, Trevor. I’ve _always_ been willing to do anything to keep you safe. And I do want to be honest with you and let you know that I’m still really hurt,” and at that Trevor attempts to look away from him, avoiding eye contact, but Jeremy holds tighter and tips his head back up, “but I am going to do anything I can to let you know that I care about you and-- and I love you, Trevor, and I’ll do anything for you.”

Matt can’t see Trevor’s expression but he can see him nod, slowly at first and then faster, more emphatically. Jeremy pulls him down to embrace him tightly and Matt feels a little awkward, just for a second, before Jeremy cracks an eye open to look at him over Trevor’s shoulder. _Whatever this is, I’m a part of it too_ , Matt thinks to himself, and then reaches out and rests a hand on Trevor’s back.

Trevor pulls back after a few moments, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Matt lays a hand on his shoulder and Trevor looks over at him, a small smile coming to his face. 

“I have to be mushy too,” Matt says, and after a moment’s pause, he reaches out and grabs both of Trevor’s hands in his. Trevor laughs a bit, fingers curling around Matt’s. “I don’t have to tell you that it hurt, knowing that you did this on purpose.” He pauses a moment, glancing down to where their hands are clasped together and then back up. “But, I also want to say sorry,” and Trevor looks appropriately befuddled. Matt smiles a bit. “I’m sorry that I didn’t do enough to make you feel like you could tell me anything. But I promise that I love you, as well, and you mean more to me than you could ever know.”

“Oh, no, that’s not what it was, it’s not-- it’s not your fault.” Trevor squeezes Matt’s hands, thumbs running over his knuckles. “It’s-- your mind tells you stupid shit when you’re stressed out. So, I’m sorry,” and he directs this to the both of them, looking briefly at Jeremy as well to make sure he gets it too. “I’m sorry that I didn’t trust you guys enough to tell you what I was going through. And,” he adds, “I know you guys would do anything for me. Thank you.” He’s tearing up again, and Jeremy lays a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for not hating me.”

“Oh, Trevor, I don’t think we could ever hate you,” Jeremy says, squeezing Trevor’s shoulder. Trevor nods in acknowledgement, tears beginning to flow.

Matt decides that it’s time for him to give Trevor a good hug, pulling him to his chest and, after a moment’s consideration, pressing a kiss into his hair. Jeremy leans forward and puts his arms around Trevor too, reaching around far enough to put a hand on Matt’s arm as well.

Matt can’t help but smile, satisfied. He knows there’s more they have to work through: Trevor leaving and the inevitable new hire that comes with losing the main intelligence guy; rebuilding trust and setting Trevor at ease in their spaces again; exploring the more delicate and complex aspects of their friendship, relationship, _whatever_ \-- but in any case, this is enough for now. Having Trevor’s head resting against his chest, breaths quieting as his tears dissipate, snuggled close-- but also Jeremy, a soft smile on his face, carding his fingers through Trevor’s hair and looking at him like he is the whole world.

Matt feels better than he has in months.

“Well, how’s about we order some pizza and then retire to bed at a reasonable hour?” Jeremy proposes. Trevor sits upright, already laughing.

“That sounds great,” Trevor says, looking between them. The smile on his face no longer seems brittle, like he’s on the verge of tears. An improvement. 

Jeremy sets about opening the Domino’s app and placing a pizza order. As he punches in their address, Trevor gently touches his forearm-- and then Matt’s, glancing between them. “I love you guys too,” he says, and he looks like he is relieved to be able to say it out loud. Matt smiles, taking Trevor’s hand in his again and squeezing tight.

_This is how it should be. I’m so glad he’s back._

Trevor awakes and forgets for a moment where he is. For just a second, he thinks he’s still in Alfredo’s apartment, sleeping on his couch, but no, no-- there’s a real pillow under his head, not just a shitty throw pillow, and there’s a fluffy comforter covering him snugly, and-- and an arm draped across his stomach, and a head tucked into the crook of his neck.

He closes his eyes again and smiles as he recalls last night’s conversation. It went way, _way_ better than he ever expected to, but in the end, Matt and Jeremy are the same as they left him: kind, compassionate, loving, fiercely protective. He curses himself for ever allowing his anxiety to delude him into thinking they didn’t love him, that they would hate him for being scared.

He opens his eyes again and heaves a sigh as he remembers that Geoff needs to see him today. He cranes his neck to figure out the arrangement of bodies in the bed currently-- Jeremy’s head resting half on his shoulder, half on his chest, and Matt with his gangly limbs spread everywhere-- and smiles again. They love him. Huh.

He feels like he can breathe again. He no longer has to carry the burden of his perceived cowardice, no longer has to live with the shadow of anxiety and fear over him. He can just _live,_ now, under Geoff’s steadfast protection and with his boys.

He begins to extricate himself from the bed in order to get dressed. Jeremy’s eyes flutter open, and Matt groans mightily as Trevor accidentally pulls the blanket off of him, and Trevor thinks, _things are good again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew, we're done! this took about 6 months to write and only about 40 minutes to post LMAO
> 
> thanks for reading y'all, consider commenting if you enjoyed!! stay safe out there y'all~


End file.
